


Darling, You Send Me

by ricketyrunt



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Cheating, Dead Bedroom, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gregor is his own warning, Harry the Arse, Hurt/Comfort, Mid-Century Sansan, Romance, Sandor is a Butcher, Sansa is a Housewife, just for one chapter I swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-03-10 23:33:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 89,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13512075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricketyrunt/pseuds/ricketyrunt
Summary: It's 1958 and Sansa Stark is facing the collapse of her marriage to successful business man Harrold Hardyng. In the wake of her social misfortune, Sansa discovers a deeper friendship with a man she's known her whole life. A story about finding love where you should have been looking all along.I'm really into the 50's, so I apologize in advance for any nerdy style or design tangents.





	1. Chapter 1

_Eggs, potatoes, milk, Harry’s shoe polish, new hose…Though I’ll need to stop at Selmy’s for those. Sherry, wine for Harry’s boss, beer for Harry, gin for me, and plenty of it, Collins mix…_

Sansa had been so diligently reviewing the list of errands in her mind that she had completely tuned out the large man behind the meat counter that had been trimming her rack of lamb. The generous crown roast looked meager in his giant hands, extended over the sloping white and chrome glass case toward her. He was looking at her expectantly, likely seeking her approval on his handiwork, his good brow cocked at her.

“Miss Stark?” Sansa had been married for over a year, but Sandor kept to calling her by her maiden name, her family being long time customers of Clegane’s Meats. She remembered coming there as a girl and Sandor being there in her earliest memories of the red and green lined cases. That was back when George, Sandor’s father, cut the meat and the boys merely wrapped the parcels and ran the enormous cash register that rang loudly every time the arm was cranked, and the drawer would rattle open. Sansa had always enjoyed going on errands with her mother, but she had a particular fondness for trips to the butcher. George always called her “princess”, like her father had when she was young, and she had watched Sandor grow into a polite and kind young man, despite the scars that marred one half of his face. “Bloody hells, Sansa!”

“Forgive me,” Sansa implored, shaking her head as if that would shake her loose from the manic hold of her thoughts. “That looks beautiful, as always, Sandor.” He narrowed his eyes and gave her a curt nod before carefully wrapping the meat in a thin layer of plastic film before he deftly tore the perfect length of brown paper and rolled her roast up, fastening it securely with red and white twine. The scabbard of half a dozen knives or so clanged against his hip as he walked around the large wooden table, splattered with blood and strewn with frayed twine ends. “I’m so nervous for this dinner tonight. We’re entertaining Harry’s new boss for the first time and I so want to make a good impression.”

Sansa eyed the case, taking in all the cuts she had passed up in favor of the lamb. There was an impressive and well marbled beef rib roast resting in a bed of parsley. Harry loved steak and Sansa knew that the standing rib roast would be a showstopper in the center of their dining table. But then her eyes panned to the tray of fanned pork chops, perfectly pink with just the right amount of fat outlining the eye of the cut. She took to gnawing on her lip, an action she defaulted to when she was being indecisive, and looked up to Sandor, big blue eyes pleading.

“Did I make the right choice?”

“With Harry or the lamb?” Sandor was looking at her with a mischievous smirk playing on his lips as he extended the hefty parcel to her.

“Sandor…” Sansa felt herself blushing. They had known each other most of their lives, though Sandor was a few years older than her, and they had become something akin to friends for twenty minutes every few days. Not enough to speak seriously, but enough to know all there was to know, socially. “You know perfectly well I am asking after the lamb. Please, this is very important!”

Sandor sighed, shaking his head, not unkindly at her, nodding for her to take the lamb from his hands. “You and I both know you love lamb and that is a fine roast if I’ve ever seen one.” He picked up a towel and rubbed his blood -stained hands against it, his grey eyes fixed on her with what she could only think of as a _sad_ smile. He was always grave, but _sad_ , sad was new. “Need anything else today, Miss Stark?”

“I think that is everything for today, Sandor. You’re always so good at helping me make these ever so important business dinners just perfect!” Sansa hoped that showering a bit of praise on him would brighten his mood, but he just sighed and gave her a tight nod. Sansa frowned and tried to puzzle out what was bothering him. He looked well enough, still as strong and muscled as ever, his short black hair combed back neatly, as he must have worn it in his military days. He had never been exactly _chatty_ with her, but he was never this morose and brooding. Sansa couldn’t help the words falling out of her mouth, filling the silence with drivel she knew to be of little importance to anyone but her. “Harry’s just been so busy with his new position and I am so terrified I’ll ruin this dinner for him. I never have before, but I just feel like the pressure to be his perfect wife is greater this time around, you know?”

Sandor gifted her a small chuckle and he shook his head as he punched her totals into the antique register. “Can’t say I do, little bird.” He wiggled the bare fingers of his ring hand at her with a wink. Sansa flushed, and that made Sandor _laugh_. He gathered her knit grocery bag and called out her parcels as they disappeared into the dark grey tote. “Okay, we’ve got bacon, ground chuck, pastrami, one gorgeous crown roast of lamb, and…” Sandor leaned into her, lowering his voice to just barely a whisper, even though the small shop was empty. “I saved you some eggs from my girls.”

Sansa squealed softly, girlishly, as Sandor reached into the case to his left, producing a small blue and white box. “Oh, you are the sweetest!” Ever since the day when their casual conversation had turned toward the little farm Sandor inherited from his father, he tried to bring her the little green and blue eggs laid by his araucana hens that seemed to mystify her as often as he could. She slid the little cardboard tray out of the box and looked at the pastel arrangement, a bright smile parting her coral lips. “I feel terribly guilty whenever I eat one. They are truly beautiful.” She cast her warm gaze up at Sandor, who was grinning at her, and gave his massive hand a squeeze with her gloved fingers. “Thank you, Sandor.”

Sandor’s grin shrank back to the small, sad smile he had worn before. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but as soon as he opened his mouth, he merely huffed out a breath and nodded at her. After a moment, he began speaking in a low, even tone, though she suspected it was not what he truly wanted to say to her. “You’re the only one who gets that excited about my eggs and I can’t eat as many as they lay, so it just makes me happy to see you so happy to have them. It makes me happy to see you smile, Sansa.” Sandor snapped his mouth shut and she could see him shift uncomfortably before her. He hardly ever talked so much to her and Sansa wasn’t sure what to say, so she merely smiled through the heat she could feel coloring her cheeks and handed him a few crisp bills from her small leather wallet. The rest of their perfunctory transaction was pleasant, but slightly awkward. Sansa sensed there was still something he wanted to say, but he just kept clenching his jaw and he merely nodded as she bid him farewell.

Her hand was about to swing the heavy glass door open when she heard the loud bang of the hinged counter slam down as he hurried after her. Sansa spun on her heel to face him, the door clicking softly back into place. It was a bit unseemly, how close to her he stood now, and she was concerned for a moment that he might try to _kiss_ her. He merely lifted his hand to her shoulder and gave her upper arm a gentle squeeze. His voice was hushed and hoarse and Sansa strained to hear him clearly when he bent down to look her straight in the eyes.

“I wish Harry knew what a catch you are, little bird.” He brushed the back of his hand against her cheek so swiftly and softly Sansa almost missed the touch of his knuckles. Sandor winked at her again and Sansa’s stomach flipped. She wasn’t sure if it was from fear at his completely unprecedented behavior or something else. “Now make me proud and go knock ‘em dead with that lamb.”

Sansa just laughed uneasily at him, her eyes puzzled as she watched him duck back under the countertop, shaking her head as she stepped back out onto the bright, sun dappled sidewalk. She couldn’t help but think back on how odd that trip to Clegane’s had been. In the many years she had been shopping there, Sandor had been kind and friendly, but he had never had much to say on the topic of her husband, or her personal life for that matter. Sansa assumed because Harry had never been in there, that was why-Sandor had no reason to ask after someone he didn’t know. But then again, he had _never_ touched her like that. Perhaps their hands had brushed during the transfer of a parcel or a bag, but never had he come to meet her on the other side of the counter and never had he been so close.

Sansa didn’t have time to dwell on queer counter service, so she returned her attention to her list, her mind returning again to Sandor for as she crossed an item from it. _Potatoes, cereal, polish, hose, dry cleaning._ She made her way down a block to the small market with the red and white awnings on the corner by the cleaners. She hoisted the bag containing the meat from her elbow to her shoulder and picked up a small, red plastic basket as she entered the store. _Gin, Sansa, do not forget gin. And wine. Beer. Collins Mix._ A pretty, young brunette greeted her from behind the closest checkout and Sansa returned the girl’s smile and nodded.

She knew her way around the market in studied detail. Her long, free arm reached out without so much as looking and grabbed a small sack of potatoes from the first bin she encountered as she began her well-practiced circuit through the aisles. The level of attention she had given her classes in college primed her to be a dutiful and learned housewife. Sansa was well versed in 19th century literature as well as the domestic art of perfecting a home and defining her role in the social workings of her small town. After all, she had found, the two pursuits were not so dissimilar.

The bright new packaging for the laundry soap Sansa used had suddenly drawn her attention and she very nearly bumped into an oncoming stranger. The arm she had brushed up against belonged to Harry’s secretary, Mryanda. A buxom girl a few years older than Sansa, Myranda was a young widow who made up for her very average looks with ample curves and an easy style. Sansa never much liked Myranda. Most women who wished to remain happily married, like Sansa, hated unattached women like Myranda who seemed to purr at every married man in sight.

“Oh, Myranda, I am so sorry! I don’t know what’s gotten into me!” Sansa gave Randa a warm and polite smile, lightly touching the girl’s elbow as she steadied herself. “I was in my own little world, trying to get everything for this dinner I’m planning for—”

“For my Harry and Mr. Baelish,” Randa finished for her, faintly annoyed it seemed, since she was already aware of this dinner.

“I didn’t realize you knew,” Sansa remarked nonchalantly, working harder now to keep the smile in place _. Did she really say_ my _Harry? Is that just an endearment all the girls use for the men they serve?_

“I _do_ set _your_ husband’s calendar, Sansa.” Myranda smiled with a dismissive wave of her hand and pushed past Sansa, calling over her shoulder, “good luck with your _little_ dinner, sweetling!” Randa had a falsely saccharine way about her, leaving Sansa feeling small and uneasy in the wake of their exchange. A heavy knot formed in her stomach, her skin feeling clammy as a wave of nausea crashed over her. When the world around Sansa started to tunnel, she forced herself to focus on one shiny, red apple. She took deep, shuddering breaths to calm herself. All she needed now was to faint in the produce section of Manderly’s. 

“Stop it, stop it, _stop_ _it_ ,” Sansa hissed at the apples, biting her lip until she could taste a tinge of coppery blood on her tongue. “Harry is a good man and you need to get a hold of yourself!” Sansa smoothed her free hand over her short, auburn curls. She straightened up to her full height and held her head a bit higher. She returned to her mission, plucking a can of shoe polish from the little wire dispenser. _Beer, gin, sherry, wine, dry cleaning._ She had decided she was skipping Selmy’s and would just wear an old pair of hose, she didn’t think she could bear another stop with more potential for odd encounters this afternoon.

After checking out with the cheery cashier, sleepwalking through her transaction with the girl, Sansa headed across the block to the dry cleaners. She was grateful the old man who owned it was working instead of his daughter. The man was very quiet and not one for chit chat. She fetched Harry’s suits, slung them over the arm carrying the meat, readjusting the bag from the market before shuffling a few yards down the block to her white-over-red Edsel. It had been Harry’s car, more of a boat when she caught sight of it from behind, and it was far more car than she ever needed. But she loved driving with the top down, especially since summer was quickly coming to an end, even if it completely ruined her hair. Sansa deposited her goods into the trunk, glancing across the street to Clegane’s. She couldn’t see anything from her side of the street, just the blur of cars as they drove past her.

There was a little package store just a few more yards up the block. Sansa always parked and shopped this way, stationing herself at the furthest point where she’d have to carry the most and shopped her way down the block and back. She was at the end of her route, just a quick dip into Tyrion’s where she was close enough to haul back the heavy bottles. It was a neat and orderly routine that satisfied her immensely.

“Hello, Tommen!” Sansa called out to the young boy, instantly cheered by his bright smile and enthusiasm.

“Miss Sansa!” The sweet boy was home for the summer to help his uncle at the store and they had stuck up a bit of a friendship over the hottest months that fed a thirst she found only an ice cold Tom Collins could quench. “I’ve pulled aside the mix and gin you like and some beer for Harry, is there anything else I can get for you today?”

“I’ll need a dry sherry and a good French red. Expensive! And something for dessert…” Sansa hadn’t thought about dessert, but she’d need a sweet wine to pair with the rich chocolate cake Harry adored.

“A sweet sherry?” Tommen suggested with a shrug. The boy had picked up a little about wine, listening to his uncle help customers and the like, but being more than a few years away from a proper drink, he really had no idea what anything was. “A port?”

“A port, indeed, Tommen!” Sansa relished the proud smile that broke across the boy’s face and she patted his head affectionately. Harry kept an account there, so Tommen hoisted up the box after pulling the other things she requested and followed her to her car. Sansa opened the trunk for the boy, grateful to have his help. She blew him a kiss as he turned to walk away, waving at her quickly as a furious blush crept up his neck. She smiled to herself, understanding why men had always seemed so pleased at making her flush like that.

Shielding her eyes from the sun, Sansa dragged her gloved fingers over the cherry red hood of the car, deciding she loved the car more than anything that had ever been hers. She glanced up again, her hand on the handle to the door, looking for something she couldn’t quite name. Sandor was standing in front of the store that had been his father’s, a broom motionless in his hands, framed by the flaking white and black lettering adorning his large storefront windows. He raised a large hand to wave to Sansa and she waved back, sinking into the warm black seats, her stomach doing a little flip again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of character development here. I promise more action and more Sansan in the next!

Her errands had taken her longer than she wanted, and Sansa was glad she had opted for skipping Selmy’s and set to work getting everything away and in from the car the moment she got home. _Chill the drinks, frost the cake, set the curlers, makeup, dress the roast, prepare the vegetables, dress myself, everything in the oven._ She ticked off the items on her new list with each trip she took in from the carport. She and Harry bought the modest brick ranch just after they married almost two years ago, the first to ever live in the newly constructed house. Glendale Heights was a quiet, middle-class neighborhood, and they had been amongst a dozen other couples their age, looking for the houses they would fill with children. Harry and Sansa were the only _couple_ left. Sansa frowned at the thought.

It hadn’t been for lack of trying, though the trying had all but stopped in the past few months. Sansa wasn’t quite sure what she was doing wrong, but she sensed that Harry’s desire to have a child and her inability to give him one, had stifled their newlywed bliss. Sansa frowned again, feeling the poke of her mother’s bony finger at the crux of the little “v” that appeared every time she furrowed her brow. “Stop it, Sansa, you’re giving yourself wrinkles.” It was Sansa’s mouth but her mother’s voice forming the words. She shook out an apron from the drawer below her stand mixer and tied it around her waist.

Sansa enjoyed cooking. It wasn’t just that it made her husband happy, it was methodical. The process of bringing together ingredients to form a dish was cathartic for her, a way to quiet her racing mind. Ever since she was a child, she needed something to occupy her hands lest she start fidgeting, earning a stern reproach from either her mother or her teachers. She had enjoyed painting and drawing as a girl and cooking seemed to be the practical, adult version of that for her. There was nowhere for her to place an easel or store paints or even make a mess in Harry’s house.

Harry had once expressed displeasure with her messy painting clothes and the infinitesimal speck of paint she tracked into the Edsel once. It was still there, a tiny blue dot from a landscape she had been working on one warm summer day she spent at the riverside. Her transgression earned a scowl and a futile scratch of his nail over the stubborn spot every time he got in the car. He had once joked, or at least Sansa thought it was a joke, that she could have the car she _ruined_ when the sporty new Corvette came out the previous year. “Not to mention the Edsel was a complete failure,” she remembered him saying with a smirk. “A successful man like me deserves a car to match.” Well, now the Edsel was hers, failure or no.

Sansa was frowning into the butter and sugar as they smashed together in the glass bowl of the stand mixer. Turning to the fridge, Sansa reached to flip on the small radio perched above the white and chrome icebox, filling the kitchen with brassy horns and heavy thrumming bass. Pulling up the long silver latch of the fridge, she fished out the Collins mix and snaked the bottle of gin out of the small freezer. Aside from pitcher cocktails being incredibly convenient for entertaining, it was also easy to sneak a drink and no one be the wiser. Dumping both bottles in, Sansa broke up the ice in the little metal tray and dumped the cubes into the glass pitcher. She gave the concoction a stir, straining a palmful of cocktail cherries between her fingers over the sink, the bright red syrup near the same color as her nails.

Bringing a thumb to her lips to lick off the sticky remnants of the cherries, the image of Sandor’s large fingers wiggling to remind her he was unmarried came unsolicited and vividly to mind. Another stomach flip. She couldn’t help but wonder if she was getting sick before the memory of his hand ghosting across her cheek floated to the fore of her thoughts and she let out a sigh. _Not sick_ , she mused with a nervous smile. She wasn’t ready to think about what the feeling meant, so she rinsed off her hand and poured herself a drink, remembering that she needed to move on to the frosting.

After the cake, she took her cocktail into her modest bedroom with a large window looking out into the well-manicured backyard. Her mother had enjoyed gardening, a hobby Sansa had adopted in her youth, ever the studious protégé of her Catelyn. It was another outlet for her anxious mind, another way to keep herself focused. She took pride in pruning the roses and seeing to the small herb and flower garden she had developed along the back fence. Harry tended the grass, of course, it was men’s work after all. But surveying the yard only reminded Sansa how Harry had recently marred her dainty pink tea roses after having a few too many beers before talking up his _manly_ charge.

Sansa took a long drink from the cold glass before twisting her hair into the small plastic rollers that curled in on themselves, trapping ringlets of her auburn hair. She usually didn’t wear much makeup, but tonight was a special occasion and she found herself digging out foundation and eyeliner, long neglected in the back of her vanity drawer.

Sansa felt slightly out of practice, but everything her mother taught her came back like second nature. She painted a thick black line over each peachy eyelid before swiping a light red lipstick over her parted mouth. She had been told most of her life that she was beautiful, and looking at herself now, she objectively knew she was in fact very pretty. But she couldn’t help but wonder what good were her looks if her husband never touched her? Sansa saw the frown before it started and fixed her face. She took the last swallow of her drink before she went down the hall to get dinner started.

Unwrapping the brown paper that concealed the lamb, Sansa marveled, not for the first time, at how perfectly the large, bloodstained butcher always seemed to package her meats. Not a blemish on the paper, not a bit of blood on the twine. She found herself wondering how beautifully he must be able to wrap gifts. Thinking of his dead family and his ringless fingers, she wondered sadly if he even had many occasions to give presents.

Sandor had done an excellent job, as always, cleaning the delicate lamb ribs into pearlescent little fingers, like a hand opening to the heat of the oven. She brushed a bit of oil over the deep red meat, sprinkling a few dried herbs from her garden and salt over the glistening crown. Sansa ran her finger over the rosemary sprigs she had cut from the garden earlier, pinching a bit between her fingers and inhaling deeply. She loved rosemary. It was so earthy and piney and reminded her of home, of growing up in the northern Adirondack mountains, before her father passed away and her mother uprooted them to her childhood hometown. Sansa sighed, turning her attention to the vegetables and away from the years of sadness that darkened her past. She tossed everything in the same oil and spice concoction as the lamb and spread the potatoes and string beans into their respective baking dishes.

The empty glass stared up at her from the counter and she decided that no one would notice another half glass gone from the pitcher. Experience taught her that she was usually the only one who would drink the lemony cocktail anyhow. Helping herself to another pour from the fridge, Sansa draped Harry’s dry-cleaning over her arm and hummed her way back to the bedroom. Getting dressed was arguably Sansa’s favorite part of entertaining. Setting her glass down on her end table, Sansa rolled back the pocket doors to their closet, pushing against the invisible line that separated his clothes from hers, making space to hang his suits.

Still humming idly to herself, Sansa hooked the bags onto the wooden bar, sorting them from deep grey to Harry’s darkest olive suit. She was partial to the olive tweed the most, the color offsetting Harry’s sandy blonde hair and blue eyes quite nicely _. He really is quite handsome_ , Sansa thought with a proud smile, running her hand over the jacket, imagining it were on Harry himself. His good looks won her over instantly and after a mere breath shared between them, Sansa found herself falling in love. Her mother died rather tragically in a car accident the year after they met, and she was just out of college. She needed something to ground her and give her stability when everything seemed lost. Her brother Robb had died in Korea the year before and Arya had run off to California in pursuit of the rootless, beatnik lifestyle.  They were all dead or gone, and she was left to make the best of her life with Harry. _Stop it, Sansa,_ she silently chided herself. This was dangerous territory and she couldn’t allow herself to go there, especially not tonight _._ Stopping the frown before it even started, something caught her eye.  Lost in her dark thoughts, Sansa almost overlooked the small cream-colored envelope dangling from the neck of the hanger. Harry didn’t usually leave things in his pocket, he wasn’t one to carry a lot in his pockets in the first place, so Sansa figured it must be either important or garbage.

Tearing the little pouch from the hanger, Sansa’s curiosity was peaked as she dipped her slender fingers in the flat package, extracting a small piece of heavyweight ecru linen finish paper she recognized from Harry’s personal suite of stationery. She would, of course, she was instrumental in helping him select from the dozens of whites and off-whites, creams, and beiges. When it came down to eggshell against ecru, Sansa implored Harry to select the slightly warmer hue, insisting that it would give his memorandums a tone of warmth lacking in the stark white cardstock his colleagues preferred whilst maintaining his professionalism.

The contents of this particular memo should have been scrawled on a dive bar’s bathroom wall and not on the pretty paper Sansa took so much care to select.  

 

_Harry,_

_Can’t look at your desk without giggling. Will you have me again soon or will we merely pretend like it was all some delicious dream? Would a true gentleman leave a lady so wanting?_

_Let me be your secret, Harry._

_Randa_

 

The bottom of the note was punctuated with a crimson kiss, the endearment drawing all the blood from Sansa’s head as she dragged her thumb over the mark Randa’s plump lips left behind. The world started to feel too small, Sansa’s dress too tight, the air she breathed too thick. Sansa was shivering and sweating at the same time, her body racked with the shuddering of her manic breathing. A shaky hand found the zipper at her side and the slight easement in her dress gave her a fleeting moment of relief, though Sansa could not seem to catch her breath. Her hands clawed at the closure of her brassiere under her slip, her chest heaving as she struggled to fill her lungs. _So, this is what drowning must be like._ She sighed when the hooks finally gave way and she fell on her knees before the open closet, her hands fisting the shaggy white area rug she was grateful for whenever she stepped out of their bed.

Their bed. It seemed wrong like it didn’t belong to her now, though the rings on her left hand set her apart from the temptress who had successfully seduced _her_ husband. Sansa was sure her father would never have done such a thing to her mother, their greatest rows stemming from trivial expenditures or her mother’s insistence that they all attend services at the sept every weekend. Their simple arguments, if one could even call them that, always ended in a kiss and a playful pat on Catelyn’s behind, a gesture that never failed to scandalize Sansa and her siblings. Sansa’s eyes were swimming and she felt silent tears roll down her cheeks.

She frowned as she realized she would have to reapply her makeup.

Sansa wasn’t quite sure what she mourned most as she brought the world around her back into focus. Her family, her marriage; everything she touched seemed to turn to dust. She wasn’t quite sure where she went wrong. She was a good wife. She kept a clean and enviable home, but perhaps her inclination toward the clean-lined aesthetic of post-war furnishing, with slender lines and lighter tones had subtly emasculated him. Perhaps he craved the intricate glasswork and inlay of art nouveau, a style reminiscent of the smoking parlors and whiskey bars where he and his colleagues often found themselves on Friday nights, after the end of the week. Or perhaps it was the _company_ he found in the darkened corners of swanky Manhattan bars that kept in the city long into the night. Clearly, somewhere along the way, she had fallen short of his expectations.

Marriage was forever, a value that had been instilled in Sansa from youth. Even when girls were pushing up their skirts for every John with a letter jacket, Sansa stayed true for her future husband. Lust simply couldn’t compare to the future of blissful happiness that would reward her patience and virtue. Clearly, she had disappointed Harry and would have to correct her behavior to win back his affections, and divorce was a dirty word. She would not willingly join the ranks of the used-up wives she had pitied. The haggard, sour-looking women at market whose husband’s long hours at the office and wandering eyes had bred incurable insecurity. If any marriage happily survived an affair, she couldn’t say. Perhaps she should treat Harry’s indiscretion as a test, a challenge for her to prove her superior domestic charms. Sansa sniffled, wiping the unwanted tears from her cheeks, sitting up a bit straighter. Her battle to regain her husband’s faithful attention would start with this dinner.

Sansa pulled off her disheveled undergarments and crossed to the modest bathroom. Dragging a cool cloth over her face and neck, wiping away the sheen of nervous sweat that coated her chest and stomach, she felt renewed. As she fastened a fresh brassiere with the sheer black panties she had only worn once, on their honeymoon. Sansa caught sight of herself in the mirror leaning over her lowboy dresser, turning a critical gaze to the woman looking back at her. She was still young, about to be five and twenty, and her childless figure was admirable. Sansa still kept the little food journal tucked securely in her purse, a habit forced on by her mother when she was a teenager.

 

“Your figure and looks will be first to go, Sansa,” Catelyn sighed. Sansa remembered watching her mother, who was still a great beauty after three children, reapply her signature bright coral lipstick in the rearview mirror of the family Plymouth _._ “A lemon cake at the end of a fine meal may seem innocent enough, but those few bites can sit on your hips for years.” She capped the tube of lipstick, disappearing the bronze weapon into her clutch, bringing a red tipped finger to tidy the outline of her full lips. Catelyn Stark smiled ruefully, tilting her head toward the portly woman ambling into Clegane’s Meats just to the right of their car, a living example to her mother’s wisdom arriving as if on cue.

Sansa noted immediately how the woman’s calves seemed strangled by her pantyhose, her ankles spilling over her saddle shoes. The woman’s dress was fine, she clearly had married well enough to keep her in the year’s style of dress, but the clothing was ill-fitting and did more to accentuate her stomach spilling out of her girdle. The ugliness the twelve-year-old girl would have merely overlooked before brought a deep frown of concern to Sansa’s face.

“Lollys and I are the same age.” Catelyn’s smile was prideful, time proving her the victor. “We fancied the same boy growing up, some so-and-so that likely perished in the War. He took to Lollys quite easily.” Sansa’s eyebrows raised with her apparent surprise, recalling the woman who surely had hairy moles and a certain bodily smell about her. “Don’t doubt for one second that Lollys Stokeworth was a natural beauty in her day, Sansa.”

She felt the dig of her mother’s index finger in the deep creases of her brow, her face softening reflexively.

“Lollys married well, gave her husband beautiful children.” Catelyn picked and smoothed her curls so they were just the way she liked them, a ritual completed before they exited the car, no matter the destination. “But somewhere along the way, she lost sight of her husband’s happiness, she let herself go. A common affliction for well-bred wives and mothers, I’m afraid.” Catelyn straightened the mirror back into place, fixing her intense gaze on her daughter, the very image of Catelyn’s youth. “You are beautiful, you will marry well, and you will do well not to make the same mistakes as Lollys. It may not count for everything, but men will always cherish a pretty face and a young woman’s figure. Do well to keep your husband happy, lest he run around with every woman who gives him the time of day, like Bronn.” Catelyn shook her head, lamenting the misfortune of her old friend. “There is no coming back from that.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might not be able to update until next week since I have all but abandoned my own work and domestic responsibilities. I thought I'd post a nice, juicy one. Next one will be Sandor's POV. :)

Sansa had peeled herself up from the bedroom floor and summoned the courage to dress in a knee length sky blue cocktail dress, accented by a swath of white chiffon down the center, cinched into a high-waisted bell shape by the silk bow around her waist. Harry loved her in blue, arguably his favorite color, a lovely complement to her auburn hair and porcelain skin. He would love her in this dress.

The lamb was roasting in the oven, filling their home with warmth and tangible proof of her culinary abilities. She floated down the hall, each step a supplication for strength as she pulled her mind together, to face the evening that lay ahead. She found herself drawn to the patio, staring into her garden. The waning summer had taken the brightest blooms and left behind the hearty, cold weather herbs and vegetation. But amidst the mask of greenery, a few bright orange tiger lily blooms stood proud against the decay of fall. Sansa deftly snipped the best offerings where the blossoms verged from the main frame of the plant. She would have to cut them back in a matter of weeks, anyhow, or they would overrun the rest of the garden.

The handful of orange blooms filled out a beautiful crystal vase, a wedding gift, like everything that graced their table. With not much left to do but wait, Sansa settled down at the table staring into space, a cigarette perched between her delicate fingers. She had never developed a taste for smoking, even socially, ever since her mother cautioned her against the harsh wrinkles that some women developed from idly puckering up all day. Sansa wasn’t sure what she thought it would do, but when she found herself sorting out a difficult matter in her mind, it seemed only _natural_ to indulge in a smoke. If only she had a stomach for scotch.

Time slipped by quietly, narrated by the soft swing music still playing in the kitchen. Sansa stubbed out the neglected cigarette when its embers threatened to singe her skin, heaving a sigh. She rose to tend to the lamb when she smelled the turn from aromatic to caramelized, knowing Harry would be home in mere moments. She had no intention of revealing her discovery of his love note, especially not tonight if ever, though it was all she could do to push the revelation from her mind. Sansa braided sprigs of rosemary through the round of delicate bones, golden from the heat of the oven, a fragrant crown. The vegetables went in next, almost in time with the sonorous chiming of the hall clock, marking the start of the evening. Switching off the music in the kitchen, Sansa set to adding the finishing touches on the table.

Sansa let an easy smile grace her lips as she took their sherry glasses out of the walnut hutch, sliding the dainty, ornate glasses to the right of the water tumblers she had placed with the rest of the settings that morning. The ivory table cloth and matching napkins had been her mother’s, one of the few items she insisted upon when her eldest brother divvied up the family estate. Catelyn Stark hosted a terrific dinner party, a skill not lost on her most fastidious student, and it gave Sansa some much-needed peace to see everything coming together. Catelyn Stark would keep it together.

Glancing at the range clock passively ticking her life away, she knew Harry had most certainly disembarked the 5:20 to Cold Spring and could cross their threshold at any moment. Sansa thumbed through the records stored in the cabinet of their hi-fi, a short-wave wartime radio Sansa had fallen in love with on the showroom floor of Kimbrell’s. She contemplated her latest addition, a Sam Cooke album, each song marked beautifully by melancholy. But she knew how Harry felt about that _one_. She unsheathed Harry’s new Dean Martin instead, her hips swaying rhythmically as she cued up _Volare_.

Singing distracted her and Sansa felt at ease, as though the proof of her husband’s infidelity wasn’t tucked away with her undergarments in her dresser. She sang along softly, cutting the tomatoes and cucumbers that studded the crisp romaine salad that already occupied a wide teak bowl. Everything around her looked exactly like the tablescapes and celebratory dinners depicted in her favorite lifestyle magazines. Harry considered the monthly journals empty _drivel_ and Sansa only indulged when she was alone. Those magazines featured well-to-do couples and their homes and Sansa considered it research, the standard to which she would hold all her domestic decisions, adding her own youthful flare. She imagined this dinner as though it were a feature in the Ladies’ Home Journal. Sansa hooked on the arm of her handsome, accomplished husband, standing before an immaculately prepared and presented dinner party. No matter it was only for three, it was a milestone in Harry’s career and she would make him proud to be her husband.

The heavy oak door creaked open and Sansa’s face broke into a wide smile. She hooked a long finger around the neck of a cold beer, levering the cap off against the church key mounted beside the fridge, just above the empty wastebasket. Harry called out a simple “hello” to her over the din of shuffling feet and proffered coats. Sansa felt her smile fade when she sensed too much noise for two people, confirmed by the feminine giggle that punctuated some joke she was not privy to. Every bit of courage she had mustered vanished when Myranda Royce sashayed into her kitchen, a false smile playing on her filthy mouth.

“Do you need a hand with anything, Sansa?” Myranda turned her dainty nose up, sniffing the air with a frown. “It almost smells as though something is…burning.”

Sansa gasped, noticing the acrid scent of burned oil, frowning at the withered string beans burned to the glass dish as she opened the oven. She huffed a sigh, frowning at her failure as a cloud of smoke enveloped her. _At least the potatoes are perfect._ She left the string beans in the oven now at rest, hiding her faux pas, though she suspected Myranda’s cat-like smile would haunt her through the night.

“I hope you don’t mind one more, Red.” Sansa scowled inwardly at his nickname for her, extending the opened beer to him, biting back her anger with a forced smile. Harry beamed his thanks, with his stupid perfect teeth and his distracting handsomeness. Offering brief and mumbled introductions to both his boss and his secretary, Sansa slipped on the mask of the perfect suburban wife for his sake. Though she had met Myranda many times before, Harry acted as though the women were strangers and she thought bitterly of the kiss stained letter. Sansa fumed privately, at both her husband’s poor manners with their company and his poor judgement in flaunting his mistress before her. “You always make enough food to feed an army, I figured you wouldn’t mind. Besides, three seemed such an _unlucky_ number.”

“Not a bother at all, my dear,” Sansa replied sweetly, concealing her anger behind kind, smiling eyes. “There’s plenty to eat and drink and an extra place setting is barely a bother.” She turned her false kindness toward Myranda, wishing her look could scorch the tramp in her fiery rage. “What might I offer you to dink, Myranda? We have wine and sherry,” Sansa ticked off. “Beer, though I’m sure it will only be drunk by Harry,” she added with a wry smile. “Or I’ve mixed a pitcher of Tom Collins’.”

“A beer would be great.” The smile only lit across Myranda’s olive toned face, her brown eyes fixing her hostess with a challenging gaze. Sansa worked hard to keep the polite smile from falling from her lips, reaching back into the fridge for another beer. It was rather unladylike, beer irrefutably a man’s drink, in Sansa’s opinion. But it was far more unladylike to deny a guest, so Sansa popped the top and offered up the drink with a smile.

“And for you, Mr. Baelish?” Petyr. Harry’s boss was dressed in a light tan linen suit, clearly suffering through the death rattle of summer heat that had come to define August in New York. The short man grinned, his hands clasped behind his back, offering Sansa a kind smile as she turned her eyes to his.

“I would love a refreshing Collins, Miss Sansa.” Petyr fanned his flushed face with the neck of his pastel yellow shirt. “I fear riding the train in this oppressive heat has left me both thirsty and a bit warm.” He leaned toward her, his mint-laced breath warm on her cheek. “The price you newlyweds pay for suburban _bliss_.”

Harry blushed behind his upturned beer. Sansa sensed that he was suddenly embarrassed by having to drag his very cosmopolitan employer into the subdivision Sansa loved calling home. Getting Harry out into a modest home in the suburbs had been nothing short of a challenge, but Sansa had won by reasoning that raising their children in a neighborhood with other kids and room to grow was best _._

_But where were the children?_

Sansa was happy to have the drinking company and pulled two clean glasses from the cabinet, having washed away the evidence of her day drinking already. She dispensed Petyr and herself generous cloudy pours, studded with blood red cherries. A Tom Collins was as refreshing as lemonade on a hot day and as reassuring as a peaceful bath. Sansa drank to feel at ease and it seemed the moment she had her first sip, the cacophony of thoughts and worries slipped under a silent sea.

Harry barely met Sansa’s eyes briefly, his comely face contorted with concern. He hated when she drank, especially with encouraging company, and she could already see their argument shaping up later that evening as she cleared the plates from their dinner party. Sansa met his eyes with an unwavering smile, knowing her etiquette was the only weapon left at her disposal.

“Well, Harry,” Petyr said through his perpetual smirk. “Let’s leave the ladies to set the table, hmm? Give me the _grand_ tour of your _quaint_ home.” Petyr said it all with a smile, but Sansa heard the patronizing subtext and saw Harry set his jaw, the defined lines of his profile twitching with his restraint. Sansa though back on his uptown apartment that his parent’s set him up in during their college years. It had been small, boasting a view of Central Park and had been a quick walk to the heart of the city, every museum and amenity at his disposal. He resented her desire, like most of the wives around her, to settle into small-town life.

Sansa frowned into her drink, realizing that as she watched Harry grudgingly usher Petyr from their modest kitchen, she would be left alone to entertain Myranda. Sansa looked around the room awkwardly, her mind rifling through any bit of idle chatter or gossip they might distract themselves with. Sansa fought the urge to shove the scandalous memo in Myranda’s face, demanding answers and explanations from the woman smirking knowingly before her. But more than she feared her husband’s wraith, Sansa knew that the dread knotting her stomach was fed by the ugly truth that her husband might actually prefer the buxom woman casually nipping from the bottle at her lips.

“Are you ill, Sansa? You’re positively ghostly…” Any concern Myranda offered was deftly undermined by the devilish smile playing on her lips, her eyes looking at Sansa with palpable _pity_. Though Sansa was taller, quite tall for a woman at that, Myranda’s confidence cast an intimidating shadow and Sansa knew her mother would not only poke her forehead wrinkles, but her slumping shoulders, and her busy leg tapping toes against the linoleum.

“You are so sweet to ask after me, Myranda, but I’m quite well.” Sansa forced the practiced smile wider, batting her lashes and relaxing her face as best she could. She couldn’t let her mask slip, not in front of _her_. “Merely thinking of what’s left to do for dinner.”

Sansa made a pointed gesture to the crown of lamb resting on a thick wooden slab, knowing the meat smelled and looked divine. She grinned to herself, grateful Sandor had endorsed her choice. Her hand mindlessly drifted to her shoulder, remembering the gentle touch of his strong hands, feeling her stomach turn over pleasantly. Her smile changed, distracted by her thoughts, painted by the fire burning in her belly.

“Did you pick that up from Clegane’s?” Myranda narrowed her eyes toward dinner, her tone flat.

“Yes, my family has shopped there for years, since we moved here.” Sansa beamed, warmed by memories of growing up at her mother’s side, her easy report with the butcher’s over the shining glass cases a standout in her memory. “I’ve known Sandor since he was just a little boy following at his father’s heels.” She feared her cheeks were colored a deep pink to match the heat she felt as her thoughts turned to the scarred man who saved her his little blue eggs and made her smile twice a week.

“Well, the apple doesn’t fall far from the ugly old tree,” Myranda said haughtily, wearing smug expression as she pinned Sansa with her gaze. She frowned into her drink, ready for a refill while her guest had only sipped daintily at her bottle. Sansa ignored the judgment in Myranda’s eyes, turning to the fridge for another draught from the pitcher. “Are you from Cold Spring originally, Myranda?” Sansa heard herself asking, all her honed social skills taking over as her mind drifted away. _Plate lamb, mind your drinking, smile, remember the olive tweed, smile, charm Petyr and_ bed _Harry tonight._

“Randa, everyone calls me Randa,” the woman huffed, her breasts straining against the dark green wrap dress that hugged her generous curves. “Even _our_ Harry calls me _Randa_.” Sansa stood fixed over her drink, her hand wrapped tight enough to crush the thin glass in her hand, a sensation that enticed her. She relaxed her fingers a bit, opting not to let her emotions get the better of her, and turned a warm smile to the girl before her.

“Randa,” Sansa replied, imitating Randa’s purr. “I’m glad Harry has a girl at the office who takes _such good care of him_.” Sansa had failed to make the words come out affably as she intended, affirming that she knew her husband was indeed _their_ Harry. The poisoned arrow hit her mark and she couldn’t take it back. The self-aggrandizing smirk melted from Myranda Royce’s face, and Sansa was left bearing the knowing smile.

“Red!” Harry called from the living room and Sansa noticed then that the music had stopped. “Get in here and help me with this godsdammned radio!”

Sansa wanted to groan, roll her eyes with the impetuous ire that rolled and roiled in her stomach. But she smoothed her skirts, donned her most winning smile, and sauntered into the living room. She couldn’t help but smile as she noticed Randa’s mouth hanging open like a carp, her self-righteous demeanor crushed under Sansa’s little confession. She knew, Myranda knew, and in all likelihood Petyr knew. Sansa felt a heated wave of rage like she had never known before and she detached a bit more, her honeyed voice sounding from somewhere far away as she explained for the _hundredth_ time how to switch the radio from turntable to Harry’s favorite party trick, international broadcast.

Sansa hated when he called her “Red”. It sounded like the kind of nickname one earned in the trenches or belly up to the bar, certainly not what one called their lovely wife. A rasping voice, buried in the corner of her mind called out to her, _little bird_ , and her knees went weak. Her slight swagger was not lost on Harry, his mouth turning down into an even deeper frown, while Petyr still seemed bemused by her mere presence. Sansa smiled sweetly, depressing the short-wave button. Sansa positioned her ear close the to the tan-clad speaker, shifting the frequency dial with small, measured twists until the familiar-unfamiliar German chatter crackled through. Sansa guessed by Petyr’s age that he would have served or at least been affected by both World Wars. Nothing seemed to mystify Americans more, veteran or not, than tuning the beige dial of her hi-fi to the West German broadcasts her simple looking radio picked up.

“Clever girl,” Petyr said with a wolfish grin, shooting her a wink.

Sansa was burning under his gaze, cooled only by her husband’s shifting gaze, landing on the doorway behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know that Myranda was resting a wide hip against the frame, likely appraising Sansa with a bemused look on her stupid, plump face. Now that she saw Harry’s mouth twitch into a genuine smile, one he never used on her these days, Sansa felt the anger swell again. She suppressed it, naturally, excusing herself to ready things for her hungry guests.

_The sooner we eat, the sooner I can wake from this nightmare._

First, she set a place for their unannounced companion, giving a generous pour of sherry behind each serving of cucumber infused water. She had seen the little touch in one of her magazines, freezing paper-thin slices of cucumber along with the water in the tray, and expected murmurs of appreciative surprise as her guests realized her clever planning. The three sat down amidst the odd chatter of German broadcast, eyeing her offerings with some confusion. Harry merely frowned at the abnormal ice in his glass as he held it up to the warm light of the chandelier. Petyr discretely fished the green ghost out of his water as the ice lost shape and offered up her surprise. Myranda simply pushed the glass aside, disgusted as if Sansa had served them all water from a public restroom in Grand Central Station. Sansa sucked a cucumber cube into her mouth, chomping down loudly, beyond caring for her lady like manners.

The topic of their discussion was decidedly business, excluding Sansa entirely as the three prattled on about the advent of new mood-altering drugs and all the things to which a homemaker like Sansa could not possibly relate. Her guests sipped the dry sherry and all but forgot her presence, allowing Sansa to gladly fade into the small kitchen behind the swinging door. She could clearly hear the banal conversation around her well-appointed Danish modern dining table. She knew no one would take an interest to know it was designed by Hans Wegner, certain their eyes would merely gloss over with disinterest, as hers surely did with all this talk of uppers and cure-alls. Sansa had been most proud of herself when she saw the sawhorse-style table-all long legs and elegant curves. She was entranced by the bowed, rosewood chairs arranged on the sidewalk, a few blocks away from Harry’s old apartment. Sansa knew she was getting ahead of herself when she waved frantically at the sour-faced woman, barking orders to the men sweating under the weight of her possessions as they moved piece after pristine piece to the sidewalk flanking her brownstone.

Sansa recognized the quality of the woman’s dress as expensive, likely French, and decidedly upper-class. Sansa had been born upper class, though her mother’s family had wealth, Catelyn’s Tully lineage was rather new as far as social standards went. But Catelyn married up, became a Stark, a line that dated back much further. Sansa raised her chin, channeling her perfect mother and her Stark confidence, approaching the scowling woman.

Sansa couldn’t remember exactly what she said, how she practically _stole_ the dining set from the woman, but she remembered the venom in divorcee’s voice as she confessed to Sansa that her husband had been sleeping with their decorator and the mere thought of sitting down to _that_ table made her lose her already meager appetite. Sansa smiled sadly, offering the woman her sincerest condolences, claiming her husband was a bit tight with money, new to having it and spending it, unlike his wife who coveted nice things. It wasn’t a total lie; Sansa had, like her father, married a someone of lesser standing, though Harry had just landed a most respectable position amongst the junior account VPs of a burgeoning pharmaceutical company.

The woman gladly sold the young newlywed the set for a song, and Sansa merely paid the woman’s moving men to deliver her table and chairs, plus a few _objet d’art_ the spurned socialite was also purging. Sansa had been proud, recognizing the newly landed European design, and procuring it for less than the weekly personal allowance Harry allocated to her. When it arrived in their newly built, newly owned home, Harry had barely spared it a second glance. But Sansa ran her fingers against the finely turned rosewood legs, savoring every dip and joint. She perched in each of the six chairs that flanked the waif of a table, sliding her back against the molded frames, a delightful shift from the clunky and cumbersome furniture she remembered from her family home. Sansa lived in her little bird’s house, with a little bird’s comforts. She liked the nickname Sandor had given her. Much better than _Red_. Only her husband called her “Red” and Sansa frowned, remembering his newly discovered infidelity.

Against her better judgement, Sansa quickly downed another Collins, the pitcher reaching suspect levels, as Petyr had merely had one glass while she was losing count. They’d likely switch to wine soon and she could cover her gin-soaked tracks. Sansa arranged four plates from her suite of wedding china on the counter. She had wanted something quirky and modern, but Harry insisted on the wide white and blue rimmed pattern, a thin edge of gold the only touch of flare in the set. She carefully arranged two chops on each plate, pairing them like joined cherries. Next came a heap of roasted potatoes. Sansa frowned, remembering the ruin of her string beans, an extra serving of potatoes filling the vacancy reserved for her second side. The chopped romaine was dressed in a simple vinaigrette and Sansa pinched a heap into each matching teal and gold bowl. Everything was set on the kitchen side of the service window, Sansa darting back to set the wine she had decanted earlier and four simple stemmed glasses.

Standing in the doorway separating her from the laughter and chatter sounding from the table just beyond, Sansa smoothed her skirts, breathing deeply to settle her thrumming nerves. Perhaps the greatest irony of Sansa Stark’s life dawned on her then, realizing the butcher likely held her feelings in higher regard than her husband.

_I wish Harry knew what a catch you are, little bird._

She smiled at the rasping voice echoing through her mind. She was a catch and she’d be damned if Harry wouldn’t see it after this dinner. Sansa lifted her chin, her hip swinging the door open. Her renewed confidence only lasted a moment, her face falling as her eyes caught Myranda’s hand resting on Harry’s thigh, the two staring into each other’s eyes, laughing over some inside joke that didn’t quite resonate with Petyr, who was the only one to turn and acknowledge her presence. Sansa tried to keep the fire burning her cheeks and the rage bile rising in her throat at bay, clenching her fists to her side as she slid the tambour service window open. Her hands clutched the countertop tightly, feeling as though she could break the solid surface easily in her grip.

_He’s making a fool of me._ Sansa bit her lip, the fresh taste of blood on her tongue. _He thinks I’m so daft that I won’t notice her groping him in plain sight and him eye-_ fucking _her._

The chain of events set off when she loosened her grip on the counter was a mere blur in her memory. She couldn’t say that she was entirely sober, nor could she blame the drink for the hand that poured the wine, drank the wine, poured the wine again. She didn’t know what force set her legs in motion as she calmly approached Randa, a polite smile on her lips, never reaching her vacant eyes. She watched herself from above as her double’s hand jerked, sending a beautiful arc of blood red wine at the uninvited dinner guest, staining her indecent blouse with the expensive Bordeaux Tommen had packed up for her.

Sansa fell into the empty chair beside the now hysterical secretary, swiping the girl’s neglected and full glass of sherry, sipping through her satisfied smile. The two men flanking her were shouting, gesturing wildly, trying to calm Myranda as she sobbed. Every noise fell on Sansa’s ears as though she were under water and those around her moving in slow motion. She was drunk. Her limbs were leaden, and she was pleasurably numb from head to toe, immune to the chaos she had ignited. Soon, she was left alone with her sherry and her beloved table as her husband likely rushed their guests to the door, showering them with apologies and excuses for her behavior.

Seizing the opportunity, Sansa tried to stealthily walk down the hall to their bedroom, bumping into the walls as she stumbled and swayed. She found her way, her hand knowing what to reach for though her vision was blurry and her feet unsure, and some moments later she found herself seated at the table again.

“What in the seven hells has gotten into you, Sansa?” Harry’s anger sobered her up a bit, but she refused to cower to him. He had been punishing her for her infertility for months by turning cold and indifferent toward her and now he brought his _mistress_ into her home, throwing his infidelity in her face.

Sansa knew that no coherent response could be formed in her state, her mouth thick and clumsy, her tongue doomed to cloud any rational justification she dared muster. Instead, she slowly unfolded his memo, Harry’s eyes growing wide and the anger that had twisted his face suddenly softening with the rising flush of his shame. She knew her husband well enough to know that he always assumed he was the smartest man in the room, his little wife no match for his cunning, surely. But as Sansa slapped the opened letter in front of him, piercing him with her cold, angry stare, a wave of satisfaction rolled over her. _This must be what it feels like to reveal a winning poker hand to a bluffing opponent_ , Sansa thought, allowing the victory she felt in his silence to show on her face.

They stood like that for some time, silently challenging one another, neither offering remorse or forgiveness.  What came next was unexpected and irreparable.

The sound of Harry’s open hand hitting her face was lost to her, her ears immediately ringing as blinding pain negated the effects of the alcohol. She missed the way her drunken fog had blanketed her in impassiveness, her fair skin burning from agony instead of immodesty for once. The pain afforded her no more words than their standoff, and she rose from the table, biting back the tears that stung her eyes. He wouldn’t have them, she wouldn’t let him see her weak again. Calmly, Sansa neatened the curls that had fallen out of place and opened the small closet by the entryway to fetch her coat and purse.

She opened the door and stepped out into the late summer dusk, the streetlights glowing ethereally down the neat and manicured pathways looping through their subdivision in lazy circles. As she strode to her car parked on the curb, Harry had demanded the driveway for himself, Sansa’s mind flashed to the chocolate cake perched like a prize on the ivory stand in the kitchen. Sansa wished she had smeared the cake into Myranda’s smug face instead, knowing that Harry would only indulge and enjoy his favorite dessert after she had gone. She knew the scene too well, Harry in his blue and grey striped pajamas, hunched over their small kitchen table, a tall glass of milk waiting to wash away the richness of the dense cake.

Sansa found her frown raising into a small curl of satisfaction as she realized where the day had truly gone right for her.

She had forgotten to buy milk.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been kind of blown away by all the comments on this. I'm glad you're all enjoying this time travel as much as I am!

“Gendry, think you can handle this on your own for a bit?” Sandor let his grip on the knife loosen, the blade falling against the wooden table with a low thud. The young, black-haired man looked up from the beef hindquarter he was carving and gave his boss a puzzled look. “Shouldn’t be more than ten.”

“Sure thing, Sandor.” Gendry gave a nod, watching the large man remove the stained apron, his eyes drawn toward the car parked just in front of the shop. The store wasn’t open yet, but Sandor would recognize Sansa Stark’s cherry red Edsel anywhere. Stepping out into the diffuse early morning light, Sandor was immediately taken aback by perfect his perfect little bird’s very disheveled appearance.

“Miss Stark?” Sansa focused her bleary eyes on him and he saw how red and swollen her usually carefree face was. He could tell she had been crying, but the unmistakable purplish bloom darkening her high cheekbone made his blood rise. _I will fucking gut that husband of yours._ He clenched his teeth as he closed the distance between them, willing himself to stay calm and not let the boiling anger inside him startle the young woman.

“You knew.” Sansa narrowed her eyes at him, watery and ready to spill fresh tears at any moment. She was dressed in a pale blue cocktail dress, a perfect complement to Sansa’s coloring, completely ruined by some sort of spill. She was a fucking mess, reeking like gin, and Sandor felt a desperate urge to kiss those lips swollen with sadness, swallowing her in his massive arms, as if to draw out the poison of her pain. She was no stranger to his idle daydreams, and he wondered for a moment if he were still asleep. Sansa was a wish he was never brave enough to name; a woman too good for a man like him. But when he closed his eyes and thought about what he was lacking, her bright eyes and kind smile drifted to the surface. It had always seemed wrong; first too young, then married, and now palpably sad. “You _knew_.”

_Not sleeping._

There was no anger in her voice, just barely above a whimper, but he couldn’t quite place what he heard. He approached her carefully, as though she were a feral animal, eventually resting his hands on the car door. “Sansa, what is going on?” Sandor reached a hand out to her face tentatively, gently brushing his knuckle against her swollen cheek. “What happened to you?”

The girl leaned into his touch with a hiss of pain, or resignation-he wasn’t sure. Her delicate fingers wrapped around his wrist and he made to pull his hand away, but she locked him against her skin. The smell of alcohol distinctly drifted from her in waves and it became apparent that she was pissed drunk. He almost smiled, intrigued by what a drunken Sansa would be like, but he caught himself. His heart fluttered when her lips turned into his hand, pressing a warm kiss against his palm. He swiveled his gaze, scanning the street, grateful that it was so early and no one seemed to be about. “You knew,” she repeated into his skin. “You’re the only one who ever tried to tell me.”

“Sansa,” Sandor pleaded, very aware of how they looked and how vulnerable she was. “Scoot over, little bird. You need to rest somewhere. It doesn’t look like you’ve slept a wink.” She laughed bitterly at that, offering a slight nod as she slid across the bench seat to the passenger side. Sandor seated himself behind the wheel, reaching below the seat to slide the bench further back. “You can get some rest inside. I can’t close or leave Gendry alone on a Saturday, but after things die down we’ll figure something more permanent out. How’s that sound?”

Sansa slid back toward him just enough to link her arm through his, leaning her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes as they began moving and Sandor had half a mind to just keep driving. But he took the small alley that leads between the blocks instead, parking her right next to his old rust red truck. After shutting the car off, they sat in silence for a moment, looking at each other for what seemed like the first time. He had never seen her look anything but put together, and he found himself disarmed by the honest beauty in her unkempt appearance, wisps of auburn hair framing her face.

She stayed locked onto his arm as he guided her through the back entrance to the shop, down a narrow corridor where the modest washroom and office were tucked out of the way. Pushing open the creaky door with green dimpled glass, Sandor ushered Sansa into his spartan workspace. He was suddenly grateful for the battered black vinyl couch leftover from his father’s days in the shop, realizing that he himself hadn’t made much use of it, not since he was a boy. Fatigue seemed to reign over her then, her body immediately drawn to the sofa and she was off her feet in a blur of silver-blue skirts and porcelain skin. He grinned at how easily she made herself comfortable, attributing her lack of self-awareness to whatever she had been drinking all night.

Sandor lifted a well-worn green sweater off the back of his chair and held it out for her, timidly. “Not sure if you need cover or a pillow more,” he offered with a shrug. Sansa smiled gratefully, taking the sweater with a delicate tug of her fingers, feeding her arms through the sleeves in one fluid motion. She settled back against the wooden armrest, crossing the too large sweater over her chest. “Get some sleep.” His rasping tone was kind but firm, and she merely nodded, the smile shrinking but never fading from her lips. Sandor’s hand was on the door and he was about to disappear into the hall when he was compelled to look back at her. Sansa’s big blue eyes were still fixed on him and he imagined for a moment that she had raised the neck of his shirt to her face to smell the old wool. He hesitated for a moment, apologies never coming easy to a stubborn man like him, but he felt a certain nagging responsibility for her current situation. “I should never have said anything about your marriage yesterday. It was out of line and entirely not my place…and I’m sorry.” He didn’t quite mean that and before he could stop himself, he felt the words rising from his throat. “I’m not sorry you _know_ , I’m just sorry you know because of me. Sorry _I_ turned your world inside out.” With that, he hurried out before he could say anything else, but he distinctly heard a soft “thank you” as he pulled the door closed behind him.

Standing in the poorly lit hall, Sandor leaned against the wall for a moment, composing himself. The hiss and crack of fluorescent above him gave sound to the frayed nerves in his body, his skin prickled and electric. He fucking hated surprises, even pretty ones, and he wasn’t exactly sure how he was going to be able to focus on his work today. He had already been gone longer than he wagered when he abandoned Gendry at the cutting table and the store would soon be open. He just couldn’t shake that he was who Sansa Stark decided to turn to as her life was falling apart. Sure, he had practically pined over her for most of his adult life, but they didn’t _know_ each other. Not in a real-world sense. He certainly didn’t know what to do with her. Her husband, on the other hand…well, a few things came to mind on that subject.

Pushing off the wall with a huff, Sandor walked slowly to the swinging black door that led to the hanging room. Winding his way through the whole lambs and half pigs, Sandor parted the plastic sheeting that separated the cooler from the cut room. Gendry didn’t look up, knowing by now that prying triggered Sandor’s rage, so he kept his head in his work, his hands nimbly separating roasting cuts from the forequarter hulking on his horizon.  

“Got through most of the stewing and roasts, just need to do a tray of steaks and then we can move onto pork.” Sandor barely registered the information but nodded to his protege as he pulled the already bloodied apron back over his head. After a long silence, the young man cleared his throat and spoke into the table, rather than chance awkward eye contact with his boss. “Everything alright with Miss Hardyng?”

“Don’t call her that,” Sandor snapped reflexively. Gendry tensed his shoulders, his hands pausing for a beat before he continued deboning the leg, his blade sliding with practiced and graceful precision. Sandor forced himself to relax, letting out a labored breath. Patience was an effort for him and he was trying to be a better man, especially to the only other person that seemed to tolerate his company. Even if he was also on the payroll. “She won’t want to be reminded of him right now,” Sandor offered by way of explanation but went no further. Gendry met Sandor’s eyes with a frown, turning his head to look back at the office as if to send Sansa encouragement. The young man sighed, shaking his head, knowing it unnecessary to voice how stupid a man would have to be to lose a beautiful woman like Sansa.

They worked in silence for the next hour before Gendry went to the door and flipped the sign to _open_. Saturdays were a blessing and a curse. The shortest day of the week before their days off, Saturday was by far the busiest as housewives planned their Sunday dinners and weekend get-togethers. Sandor was still in the fog of his own thoughts, his mind stuck on the beautiful auburn-haired girl sleeping on his couch, relying on years of muscle memory to guide him while his mind stayed adrift. Whenever Sandor heard the rumors about Harry about town, he had to wonder what his own pathetic life would have been like if he went home to Sansa every evening. The thought usually left him feeling angsty and bitter, but now, he let a cautious smile out. She had come to him after all. Maybe that meant something.

 _Best not to get too ahead of yourself, old man_ , a voice reasoned in the back of his mind.

Gendry was helping a woman and her young daughter pick out a variety of sausages for a late summer cookout when the door swung open, catching Sandor’s attention. Olenna Tyrell strode into the shop with purpose, pulling her white gloves off as she scanned the cases with her scrunched-up face. Sandor grinned, always relishing their playful encounters over the counter. Frankly, he badly needed a distraction _and_ a favor.

 “Olenna!” He boomed as she rolled her eyes at him, suppressing any sign of amusement.

“Clegane.”

Sandor knew Miss Tyrell from the shop, the kind of old woman customer whose particularities never ceased to annoy him. They had forged a pleasantly contentious relationship over the years. Knowing she would scrutinize every cut and grind as if _she_ had spent her life with a boning knife in her hands, first Sandor strove to head off any criticism the woman could levy against him. Soon, he learned that he would never perfect her standing order, that finding some flaw was how she found empowerment, and _entertainment_ , in her widowed existence. Well, that suited him just fine. He liked a bit of fun and took to planting surprises in her order. They were always harmless, of course; a decoy bundle of tallow or mangled scraps destined for the grinder that he’d slip into her pile. Her wrinkled old mouth would pucker in distaste as she unwrapped everything he had set aside, a forceful reprimand taking shape between her grinding teeth. Sandor would always cave when he saw the anger color her features, his own distorted grin giving him away as she huffed and puffed, swatting his hands over the counter. He looked forward to her order all week, always scheming some new way to perturb the old dowager of Cold Spring.

Over time, he came to learn that she had inherited a large and spacious Victorian on the edge of town when her late husband passed. Luthor Tyrell had made a name, and a fortune, for himself in the ports of old New York. He owned properties across the Northeast but retired to Cold Spring with his fourth and final wife who ended up the sole inheritor of his estate, as all his children had died in infancy or were lost to the harsh conditions of war and seafaring. Luthor himself was lost in a hunting accident, falling to his death while tracking fallen fowl in the Catskills. Olenna Tyrell had been considerably younger than her husband and seemed to enjoy her life as a widow, though she was from a well-to-do family in the Finger Lakes known for their winemaking. Her combined fortunes left her well enough off that finding work was never a concern, but she needed something to worry over, and so she began renting out her rooms to young, unmarried girls.

Sandor knew that without a husband, Sansa had nothing to fall back on. Likely, everything they owned was in Harry’s name, paid for by his salary. On paper, she did not exist. Finding work would prove difficult as well, as he couldn’t recall her having experience in any particular skill spare suburban household management. Divorce was a blight for a woman like Sansa, a glaring stamp of failure that would follow her everywhere like a shadow. He didn’t know how she would ever find a place of her own, or even pay to live in the boarding house beyond a few nights, and he felt his gut twist. He knew he would help her as best he could, but without Olenna, he didn’t even know where to begin.

“What brings you in today?” Sandor crossed his large arms over the top of the case, grinning down at the old woman. “A nice beef tongue? Lamb kidneys?” Sandor knew that unlike most of his clientele her age, Olenna Tyrell found offal appalling, disgusted by the very notion of eating another animal’s _organs_.

“Oh, you beast!” Olenna swatted his arm with her gloves and he feigned pain as if her tiny gnat bite could possibly wound him. She smirked, the old flirt, and pointed to the tray of ground lamb to her right. Sandor knew well enough that she made Sunday dinner for her tenants and she often opted for Shepherd’s Pie. He nodded, dragging his palm against the top of the case as he pivoted to the side to slide the door open and scoop up a hefty mound of the grind between his palms. Balancing the giant meatball in his left hand, he tore off a length of brown paper and slid it over the scale’s tray, slapping the lamb down with a resounding thud. Sandor had gained an intuitive sense of weights and measures over the years, but it never ceased to please him when he pulled right on the first try. _Bingo_. Olenna arched a brow and nodded approvingly before pointing to the smoked pork belly in the case opposite the lamb. Sandor nodded, each exchange between them a force of habit, and he set to slicing the bacon into thick slabs the way he knew she liked.

Peering over his shoulder, he watched as Gendry piled up the parcels he had been gathering for the woman he was helping and took the opportunity to corner Olenna’s attention. If Sansa truly meant to leave Harry, word would surely spread through the town, but he didn’t know her mind and he wouldn’t do her more harm than he already had. “How are things going at the house, Miss Tyrell?”

“Why do you ask?” Her wrinkled brow furrowed, and she narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “You know quite well I don’t rent to men and if memory serves, you have that big old farm all to yourself.”

“I didn’t know I needed a reason to ask,” he deflected with a chuckle, “but it so happens I may know _someone_ in need of a place to live for a while.” Sandor met her eye as he laid the strips down on the scale closest to the slicer, turning his back to her again as he cut two more lengths. “She’s a sweet girl, won’t cause you any trouble,” he offered when she remained silent. Olenna didn’t counter or move, just pinned him with her questioning gaze. She cocked her head toward the register, indicating she wasn’t in the market for anything else, and Sandor nodded as he made his way around to her. Gendry shot him a questioning look as they crossed chest-to-chest, making his way to help the next customer hovering around the case.

“And how is it you’ve become this _sweet_ girl’s advocate?” If he were a different kind of man, he would almost say that he detected a hint of jealousy in the old girl’s voice. Leaning her crossed forearms on the counter, he let Olenna scour him with her with unwavering intensity. He rarely revealed himself so personally to his customers and putting himself in such a vulnerable position was not easy for a man like him. But he knew all too well what it was like to be alone in the world and his memories of the defeated girl in his office went as far back as he would let himself remember and that suddenly meant more to him than he thought. Sandor stacked Olenna’s parcels neatly, turning over his response in his mind. Gossip was like a drug in the suburbs and he was reluctant to give her away.  

“She’s an old family friend, recently down on her luck.” He knew it wasn’t as specific as she would have liked, but he met her gaze sincerely and she merely nodded in response. “She needs some time to get back on her feet, away from prying eyes.”

“I find no pleasure in shaming others, Sandor.” Olenna seemed to soften a bit, taken aback by the serious direction he had steered their typically superficial transaction. If anyone understood, her was sure Olenna did. She had surely encountered her share of displaced wives in her line of work. Olenna lost herself in thought for a moment, idly tapping a bony digit on the counter. “Is this something your sweet friend needs immediately?” Sandor nodded, his stomach dropping as he watched her expression fall. She patted his hand sympathetically before she continued.  “I have no rooms at the moment.”

“A shame, that is.” Sandor shook his head as he punched the numbers into the register, disappointed in his immediate failure.

“None of that, now,” Olenna chided as she smacked his hand gently, reading him easily. She took the sting out of her gesture as she gave his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “These girls are so flippant these days, they go wherever the wind- _or the men_ -take them.” She waved her free hand dismissively at the notion of following men anywhere. “While turn over at the house isn’t high, per se, I find these girls are more eager to move into the city once they’ve established their work. Something will come up soon,” she reassured him. “And you will be the first to know.”

It was rare that Olenna was anything but business-like toward him, save his occasional pranks, but she was looking at him with something he couldn’t quite name as her hand gripped his. Sandor didn’t remember much about his mother, she had passed away when he was so young, but the kindness she regarded him with was nothing short of motherly. He smiled warmly at her, disappointed but understanding. He took her money and she her meat, and as she turned to leave, she turned to look back at him again.

“I hope this sweet girl knows what a good friend she has in you, Sandor.” Tugging on her white gloves, the rare softness in Olenna’s face transformed back into the no-nonsense mask she wore to the rest of the world. He watched as she disappeared into the street, the door chiming as it swung back into place behind her. Sandor supposed that he was Sansa’s friend now, whether he willed it or no.

The rest of the afternoon passed by uneventfully and soon Gendry was turning the sign again, sliding the deadbolt into place. Sandor had caught the boy eyeing him, always looking as though he had something on his mind but was too afraid to speak it. As they worked in silence, as they often did, Sandor felt Gendry’s gaze burning into him. “Whatever is on your mind, just say it and stop fucking staring at me already.” He was more exasperated than angry, unaccustomed to having any personal matters to sort out, let alone at the shop. Gendry didn’t speak right away, still wiping down the walls and tables as if his boss hadn’t said anything. Sandor had hired him largely for his reticence but now found his patience for Gendry’s silence wearing thin. “Don’t dare say you don’t, you’ve been biting something back all damn day.” Sandor unhooked his scabbard, slamming it down into the path of Gendry’s rag, forcing him to stop.

The boy sighed, looking anywhere but Sandor’s eyes, but opened his mouth. “It’s just…you do have the farmhouse all to yourself-“

“No,” Sandor interjected, shaking his head, knowing the direction the boy meant to take the conversation.

“It doesn’t seem like you have many options if the Tyrell house is full.” Then, after a thoughtful silence, Gendry added, “doesn’t seem like she has many options.”

 Sandor grimaced, his shoulders slumping forward in defeat.

“I just think, she clearly trusts you with what she’s going through, and you live outside of town, where people are less likely to speculate.” Gendry continued his cleaning, wringing the pink-tinged water out into the little pail he dragged behind him. “She’ll be less likely to hear what people have to say about her is all.”

Sandor knew he was right, there was sense in what Gendry was saying, but he didn’t know how to live with a woman, let alone one mending a broken heart. He heard Gendry slosh the dirty water down a drain, rinsing the bucket before he put it back in place. He paused behind Sandor, reaching out to tentatively clap him on the shoulder, a gesture the older man would have typically swatted away as if Gendry were a pest. But Sandor felt bolstered by it, restorative like Olenna’s gesture had been for him earlier. Sandor appreciated the advice, however unsolicited.

“Go home, Gendry,” Sandor said gently, giving the kid an appreciative nod. “Enjoy your days and I’ll be riding your ass again come Tuesday.”

Feeling like he had pressed his luck enough with Sandor for the day, Gendry merely gave his boss a tenuous smile and lifted his hand from Sandor’s shoulder. Sandor wasn’t sure how long he stood there, staring at the cutting table he grew up at, but the soft click of his office door issuing through the heavy silence seemed as loud as gunfire and startled him nearly as much. He heard Sansa rustling through the various doors and plastic barriers that divided the store. She emerged looking a bit better, his green sweater swallowing her dainty cocktail dress, but she had seen to her wild mane, coaxing some semblance of order from the curls. She was blushing, clearly sober enough to feel shame at her uncharacteristic behavior, toeing some invisible spot on the floor below her.

“How are you feeling, little bird?” He thought he saw the faint pull of a smile on her lips at his nickname for her. Needing a distraction to diffuse the unfamiliar tension between them, a strange mix of familiarity and desperation, he reached for the little pail of coarse salt and began spreading it over the table. It was his favorite time of day, usually a moment he reserved for himself, casting off the tension of his day as the crystals sifted through his hands. He didn’t hear her approach, her step nearly as light as a bird’s, but he closed his eyes when he felt her hand gently come to rest on his arm. _Gods, but I want to touch her._

Sandor turned to her, her eyes open and fixed on him. He didn’t know what to say, how to offer her comfort, but she seemed happy enough to continue in silence and he was grateful. She looked away when she noticed the salt he was still idly spreading around, and she lifted her hand from him and straight to the table, mimicking his moves. He handed her the pail, motioning to the other table against the wall, and she dumped the pile out, moving her hands in wide sweeping arcs until the battered surface was covered. She stayed still for a moment, her back to him, lost in thought. He clapped his hands together softly, knocking the grains of salt from between his fingers and turned to lean against the table.

“I don’t know what to do,” she spoke after a moment, not turning from the table. Her voice was small, lacking the effervescence he had come to expect from her, raw and vulnerable. He hated seeing her like this, wished he could take it all away for her, but he knew that he could never wish her back with Harry. For the first time since she showed up that morning, Sandor realized that many women in her position would simply go back once they realized how difficult leaving would be, lacking better prospects. He swallowed the anger that came with that realization, but the sour aftertaste was jealousy he knew he had no right to feel. This simply wasn’t about him.

“What do _you_ want to do, Sansa?” That seemed to pull her from her thoughts, her shoulders squaring as she turned to look at him. Sandor didn’t think he’d ever felt so ineffectual, so completely out of his range, but he was damn fond of the girl. He resigned himself to help her, even if it meant going against his own desires. He’d drive her back to the damn bastard if she so much as asked it of him. He’d even walk her to the door so he could knock Harry’s perfect teeth down his throat. “I don’t know what I can do, but I’ll help you any way I can.”

“I don’t know what _I_ can do,” she admitted, her voice wavering slightly. “I have nothing, Sandor.” She looked utterly defeated, her fingers plucking at some invisible thread at the sleeve of his sweater. He knew the feeling all to well, having come home from war to find his family had seemingly perished, as though they never existed, just a full complement of ghosts to haunt his lonely nights. He needed to know where Harry fit into all of this, even if it wasn’t his place to ask, anger swelling inside his chest every time the bruise on her cheek caught his eye.

“Well, I suppose you and Harry will talk and you-“

“No.” Her harsh interruption caught him off-guard and his mouth snapped shut. Sansa took a breath, clearly having startled herself with the force of her voice, and she unclenched the fists balled at her side. “I will not go back to Harry.” Sandor merely nodded, her tone offering no room for debate. “He has made a fool of me and I made a fool of myself at that dinner.” She absently swept a bit of salt from the table, crushing it beneath the heel of her shoe. “Not that he loves me, or ever loved me for that matter.” She rolled her eyes and let out a bitter laugh and Sandor found himself wondering if _Sansa_ ever truly loved her husband.

“You’ll come with me.” Sandor hadn’t remembered framing the words, merely felt them slide past his lips and out into the air between them after an eternity. Sansa didn’t react for a moment but nodded, and eventually offered him a smile and her kind eyes. “I have more than enough room and live far enough away from the chatty broads in this damned town.”

“I wouldn’t be a bother to you?” Sandor knew it would break her heart if he said yes to that, but he knew that inexperienced as he may be in cohabitation, Sansa Stark could never bother him. “I don’t have much, but I can help around your house, clean and cook for you until I can figure something out.” He found her eagerness endearing but brought up a hand to silence her.

“I can take care of myself, little bird.” He tried to be gentle in his tone, but he saw her face fall all the same. “I just mean, I’m not looking for anything in exchange. You won’t owe me anything. Hells, if you want to sit in a bath all day and do absolutely nothing, I’ll be happier for it.” He wanted to tell her he would gladly take care of her for a change, but it wasn’t his place nor the right time for that.

“I will find a way to repay your kindness, Sandor.” She nodded, but tears were in her eyes again, but he could tell they were not for her sadness. He watched as she crossed to him slowly, feeling rooted to his spot, his heart hammering as she brought her arms around his neck. Her delicate fingers stroked his hairline and he felt as though she meant to kiss him, her lips parted slightly as she quietly studied him. He felt his grip loosen on the table and he found his hands drifting up her back, the feel of his sweater under his hands both familiar and foreign as he palmed the space between her shoulder blades. He couldn’t be the one to move first, he wasn’t the type to prey on her vulnerable state, but he so desperately wanted to feel her mouth on his. “Of all the things I’ve lost in this life, I always knew where to find you.”

Sandor let out a long breath, wrapping his arms tightly around her, her words sweeter than any kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little backstory and development on our favorite butcher.

Sandor opened the wide set doors of the white barn beside his house, a perfect place to house her very ostentatious car. He lived some ways out of town, close enough to be at the shop in fifteen minutes, but far enough away that those who could possibly notice his new houseguest would likely not recognize her. Or have an audience to gossip with, for that matter. He offered her his arm as her stride wavered, her heels sinking into the soft earth, making him smile. Sansa was a city girl, through and through, and he wondered how long it had been since she had walked without a sidewalk beneath her feet. He led her up the flagstone stairs that opened onto a small patio where the wrought iron table and chairs he had sat as a child still stood. Little of his family home had changed over the years and he felt a small pang of insecurity as he opened the door and let Sansa in.

She was quiet as he toured her around the house, the back entrance opening into the simple kitchen. They passed through the dining room, defined by a heavy table his family rarely used, matted by a layer of dust. The living room had more life to it, the only real space he had transformed. Though basic, his additions were fairly new in style, and he gladly divested himself of the garish velvet furnishings of his youth. The heavy Victorian styled sofa left behind was entirely uncomfortable and impractical for a man his size. He much preferred the simple, clean lines of the modest, but plushly upholstered couch he had purchased from Selmy’s. Sansa’s approving smile was not lost on him, and he found himself giving her hand a gentle tug as he propelled her toward the stairs that creaked beneath their every step. “Come on, little bird. Time to see your nest.”

He nodded to first door to the right of the second-floor landing and pushed the door open. The room was a decent size with large windows facing the yard where he let his animals graze. He found himself silently begging for her to say something, anything before he let his self-doubt swallow him. The room had been his sister’s, the few things she left behind giving the room a touch of femininity the rest of his home lacked. But it was not the sort of well-appointed home he was sure a woman like Sansa preferred and he let his hand drop from hers. “I know it isn’t much, but an old dog like me doesn’t have much to offer a pretty little bird like you.” He didn’t mean to let the edge creep into his tone, but her silence had bruised his pride whether she meant it or not.

“No, Sandor...” Her face fell as she realized he had taken her silence for disappointment. Sansa curled her fingers tighter around his, tugging on him until he turned to face her. “Thank you. For everything.” Sansa gave him a watery smile before turning to him gently, rising on her toes to press a kiss on his cheek, just barely on the corner of his mouth.

Sansa slid down his body and stepped back, averting her eyes as she nervously bit at her bottom lip, concealing a small smile. Sandor stared at her, unsure what to make of her in the falling light. He decided that he didn’t have to know right then, but he couldn’t suppress the flutter of hope in the pit of his stomach as he wondered what would continue to change between them. He was reluctant to break the moment, but he found himself with no reason to be holding her hand, so he pulled back slowly, letting his arms fall slack to his sides.

“Well,” he composed himself, clearing his throat. “There are some clothes in the closet behind you. Not sure if they’ll fit, but my sister’s taste probably suits you better than mine.” She laughed softly at that and he found himself easing into a chuckle of his own. “Get washed up, take a nap, whatever you want. Washroom is at the end of the hall. I’ll be over there if you need anything.”

Sansa nodded, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth, and Sandor forced himself across the hall before he let himself kiss her senseless and show her how a woman should be treated. From his room, Sandor heard the water running in the washroom and tried to chase the image of Sansa peeling herself out of that silvery-blue dress from his mind. He chased it alright and found himself in the clutches of another demon. His mind wore a familiar path into the past, dragging up all the bodies he wished buried from the war.

He had been grateful when Gregor enlisted in 1941, leaving him a few years of less trouble at home as if serving one’s country were a viable outlet for his brother’s violent disposition. His father was a daily challenge Sandor could meet readily as the old man let drink turn him feeble. Gregor never did come back from his campaign in North Africa, so there was that bit of luck. Sandor sent his thanks skyward, a show of gratitude to the Desert Fox. A toast to small victories.

Sandor had been sixteen when he eagerly enlisted in ‘44, an easy escape from his turbulent home life and reminders of his brother’s cruelty. Sure, he had to forge his birth record, but his stature and grave demeanor played favorably to his ends. He enjoyed the discipline and structure a military life offered and the thought of dying on a battlefield somewhere across an ocean didn’t exactly scare him; if he were honest, he’d wager it just about thrilled him. A small-town boy, Sandor had never been outside of the pastoral cradle of the Hudson Valley let alone stepped foot on another continent. Dying during some great adventure seemed about all to which the aimless, battered son of a butcher could aspire.

And so, he was shipped off to France to fight in the last months of the Second World War.

The fighting came naturally to him, as he had been all but bred for it. He had always towered over his peers, the men in his family known for their great height and strength, but it was his scars that kept everyone wary of him. A nameday gift from Gregor when he was just a boy, a stupid fight between brothers that went much too far, ending with his face pressed against the cast iron stove where his mother used to cook. Needless to say, his scarred face did nothing to soften his fearsome demeanor as he made his first impressions amongst his company men. Surely anyone who could survive a wound so grave as the knotted mapwork of scars that marred the right side of his otherwise _comely_ face would be a formidable warrior. Well, his scars coupled with the drunken beatings from his father, he found he had far more training in survival than the destitute farm boys and conscripted men with whom he served.

Sandor’s first taste of combat came on the shores of France, landing with the other greenboys on the beaches of Normandy, the water glowing with the hazy rays of early morning light. He couldn’t help but wonder how beautiful the sight would have been if the scene were not the painted in the hues of battle.  No amount of training could ever prepare anyone for the onslaught they met as they disembarked from their amphibious vehicles to be welcomed by the relentless onslaught of German hospitality.

Having grown up the son of a butcher, Sandor had seen his fair share of death and had become accustomed to the sounds and smells of killing. But as the men fell around him, mere lambs to the slaughter, some baser instinct in him awoke and he charged through the heavy hail of gunfire. He would not willingly become _meat_. Every bit of training meant nothing in the end, the army didn’t drill you with live submachine gun fire in basic training, after all. There was simply no time to think. He didn’t have vivid memories of that day and he was grateful. The long day eventually did end and he somehow survived where so many hadn’t, countless men from his company floating forgotten in the Channel.

Four men survived from his platoon that started at sixteen, earning him a field promotion to Staff Sergeant of his own squad when their battered battalion was reformed out of the half-dead soldiers left standing. What came after the battle was less dangerous in some ways as warfare proved subtler, and as they pushed the German forces back, they found themselves in fewer, but more dangerous situations. House to house combat was grueling and personal and often still haunted Sandor in his dreams. Yes, they reclaimed city after city after years of occupation, but the devastation left in their wake was almost too much for him to bear. They trampled reflexively over the ruin of people’s lives and memories to gain key strongholds, all in the name of a war that had already taken so much. War was always kill or be killed, but the toll of civilian casualties that came at the cost of his own survival weighed heavily on his conscience.

And then there were the orphans.

When the dust and commotion would settle, terrified children always emerged from the rubble, looking for the ghosts of their families. That would never leave him.

Sandor took a bullet to the shoulder in a small town in Luxembourg in late fall as his division marched back east, toward the remaining German troops. It was hardly a wound, really, the missed kill shot skimming just above his collarbone, doing nothing more than annoy him as his pack incessantly chafed the area as they marched on. The hit that almost killed him came in Belgium, nearly a month later, as he and his men neared the demarcation line. As they advanced toward Germany, counterintelligence all but dried up and they found themselves ambushed in the foothills of the Ardennes. The snow was deep and travel nearly impossible, but the heavy forest seemed fortuitous, giving them more cover from enemy fire. Until the bombings began. Nothing sounded more world ripping and dangerous than massive trees tearing through the night as fires broke out and debris rained. He fucking hated fire, Gregor made damn sure of that, and he felt his focus slipping as the danger around him forced him to face his own mortality. He was ashamed to admit that for the first time since he enlisted, he was…scared.

On the second pass of bombers, Sandor took a thigh ripping hit when a massive shard of splintered pine tore through him, white-hot pain searing his entire body. The one man that had survived with him from the landing in Normandy, Lieutenant Elder, dragged him into an overgrown area and tied off his leg with a makeshift tourniquet and dosed him with a well-placed syrette of morphine before returning to the fight. It was all the man could do and when Sandor awoke in a field hospital some days later, losing a toe and the better part of his right pinky to frostbite, he was grateful for the limp. He wished he had thanked the man.

He was evacuated to Scotland to recoup once he was stable enough for transport from the field hospital. He was one of the lucky ones. Most of the men who came through the canvas flaps didn’t live long. Having suffered relatively less than the rest of Europe, Scotland seemed an idyllic oasis in the wake of combat. Far enough from home to disappear and far enough away from the battle in Belgium that seemed never-ending, Sandor felt he could finally take a breath. His leg still pained him, his hand often idly palming the deep and puckered wound, but the war was winding down and with surrender imminent in the Pacific, it was unlikely he would be redeployed.

It was there, in the hospital in Inverness, that Sandor received his first letter from Sansa. His only letter since he deployed. She was still a girl, no more than twelve, but she wrote to _him_. He was nothing more than the scarred butcher’s boy, but her letters came as frequently as wartime mail would allow and expressed her grave concern for his condition. Her correspondence conveyed the goings on of her small-town life in Cold Spring and all that had changed since he had left. He didn’t care to keep up with the so-and-so’s he left behind, but he found himself hanging on to every world committed by her neat, looping script. He tried his best to write her back, it was an unexpected bit of sweetness after the bitter months of the war, but he was never very good at communicating. Besides, what could he tell a proper little lady like her about his life recently? He had never had happy stories, and he was hardly sure where to start with all that had happened. It was all a bit too fresh, a bit too close.

Instead, he tried to stick to Scotland, telling her about the rocky coastline he thought she might enjoy and the little flat he found once he was released from the hospital. He described the ruins of castles and cathedrals he saw while driving through the highlands. Sandor had smiled when he read her response as if he could hear the excitement in the slant of her script. She told him she wished that she could see it all with him, and he found himself wishing the same. After exchanging about a dozen letters between them, Sansa finally asked when he would be coming home. _It’s been almost two years_ , she reminded him. He had received his military discharge, with honors for his service and his injury during combat, but the thought of returning to his home and his life with his father did nothing for him. He couldn’t bring himself to write her back.

When word of his father’s death reached him a few months later, he had a change of heart. Sansa’s letters had continued, taking a markedly upbeat turn when he finally wrote and informed her of his planned return. His inheritance was meager, but it was more than he had in Scotland, and his army pay would run out eventually. He would run the shop to make a living and without his brother or father to contend with, solitary farm life suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

Their reunion was significant but understated. Within weeks of taking over the shop after settling his father and brother’s paltry estates, Catelyn and a much older Sansa came in to do their usual shopping. Sansa was quiet at her mother’s side, all flush and rosy, looking out at him from under her long auburn lashes. He immediately got the impression Catelyn knew nothing of their lengthy correspondence leading up to his return, so he suffered another round of condolences for his father. Sandor tried to suppress his disappointment as Sansa left the shop with her mother, casting a backward glance at him before disappearing onto the street. He felt utterly imprudent, having built up their reunion as though they could ever mean anything to one another.

There was a piece of teal colored sea glass he had found on a beach he visited on the North Sea. It had reminded him of her eyes and he had kept it in his trouser pocket ever since. He meant to gift it to her, but the point seemed lost and the physical reminder scraping against his leg made him feel like an enormous fool. The door chime snapped him out of his thoughts and he did his best to school his face to meet the next customer.

“Sandor?”

The tension fled from his shoulders as he turned to face Sansa as she boldly strode toward him and ducked below the counter. “Little bird,” he offered by way of greeting. He lifted his eyes to hers, overwhelmed by the wide blue depths of them, as she beamed at him. Gone was the timid little girl behind her mother, replaced by some bold young woman who didn’t hesitate to throw her arms around him and place a kiss fully on his mouth. After a moment, his shock subsided, and Sandor pressed her narrow frame instinctually against himself.

“I’m glad you’re home,” she whispered as she pulled away from the kiss but not from his embrace. Every word that fell from her lips rushed through his bloodstream, heated by the feel of her breath on his neck. It didn’t last long, however, the bell above the door ringing as cold as ice against the warmth of the moment, shattered by the shrill call of Catelyn Stark for her daughter. Sansa’s eyes went impossibly wider as her mother pulled her away, but not before Catelyn starred daggers into the heart of Sandor Clegane. Sansa shyly smiled back at him before she disappeared, likely to languish under the wilting heat of Catelyn’s ire.

He didn’t see much of Sansa after that. And as time passed, he found himself forgetting that day more and more, making himself question if she had truly even kissed him in the first place. _Surely, it had only been an embrace._ Her warmth had dissipated, and he was left no different than before, save her continual appearance in his torturous thoughts. But Sandor knew she was just a girl, too young and beautiful for the ruinous mess of him. He made his peace with it, eventually, though there were always reminders of her in his mind. And then Catelyn passed away and she started haunting him again, even if it was only to say hello, whatever had once transpired between them seeming nothing more than the ashes of a young girl’s fancy. And then she up and married to that cunt who drank his way into every woman’s smallclothes at the local watering hole as soon as she graduated college. Had he not been avoiding drink like fire after the war, the way Hardyng flaunted his infidelity would have been enough to keep him away.

It was near impossible keeping quiet, watching her fuss and worry over what Harry thought about _her_. Sandor knew as much how highly her husband valued his marriage, picking up a little here and there from the hens who squawked around his market. But the clucking grew more persistent as months drew on, suggesting Harry had found a certain _someone_ , a woman he seemed more faithful to than Sansa. Nothing was juicier than an affair. Suddenly, his little bird seemed to be everywhere. Filtering through the fog of his dreams to stalk his waking life, he caught sight of her cherry red Edsel every time he scanned the streets or the streak of fire that he would gladly burn in as her head poked through his door twice a week.

And so, he found himself at the bar one night, out of practice for the way he was pitching back the lousy pours Gendry was putting in front of him. Gendry sometimes picked up shifts at the bar and he had invited Sandor to visit him on the other side of the counter for a change.  Sandor deferred for a time, knowing well what predisposition to drink looked like, having learned well at his father’s knee, and made no attempt to take up the habit. But a part of him needed to see Sansa’s husband in all his glory for himself. So, he told himself he wasn’t going to the bar to drink, merely to socialize with the young man in his employ, away from the concerns of their work.

His façade was not nearly as whole as he intended, and soon Gendry was narrowing his eyes at Sandor and taking his sweet time refilling the neat little whiskey glass he impatiently, if not anxiously, tapped on the counter. Sandor’s eyes screamed murder at the young Hardyng, a man who lived such a soft and squishy existence, who must never have known loss and pain. Only a naïve fool would ever jeopardize his offensive good luck like that. After all, there were men like Sandor who never had a godsdamned shot at anything other than misery, seemingly from the jump. When he saw his mark pawing some busty _no one_ like a horny teenager, the tiny glass shattered in the vice of Sandor’s fist and Gendry turned to him immediately, stopping the chain of events he must have sensed unfolding. As soon as Sandor rose from the stool, the drink went straight to his head, darkening his sight, though he remembered a pool of deep crimson beneath him as his head came forward to rest on the bar. He awoke some hours later, Gendry heaving out a relieved sigh, helping his foolish boss back to the little office in the shop where he could sleep it off.

There was a long, silvery scar that ran from the base of his thumb in a smooth arc nearly to his wrist. He was lucky it was his left hand and not his cutting hand, though the palm throbbed like a hot tooth for nearly two weeks after. _Just a drop in the bucket,_ Sandor thought to himself, bitterly _._ He heard the bathroom door open and Sansa’s door click shut softly, ripping him from the depths of his thoughts. _Her door_. His eyes turned toward his own in the faint moonlight, imagining her with her hair hanging in limp waves down her slender back, long pale legs disappearing up the crossed front of a silk robe as her quiet steps fell outside his door.

“Fuck me,” he groaned, turning his head into the pillow, the torturous stream of war memories somehow preferable to the circle of auburn hell he now found himself in. He lay in his wide, cold bed thinking of Sansa mere steps away instead, and half-heartedly fucked his hand, thinking of how her soft lips felt against his cheek. And then, just like always, she was gone. The specter of his desire closer than ever, but always just out of reach. Feeling more unsatisfied than before, it was a time before he finally fell into fitful sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, so blown away by all of your comments and impressions. Keep em coming!

Sandor scowled at the sunlight pouring through his open curtains, the morning coming far too soon for his taste. Sleep never came easy anymore and his new all-consuming distraction seemed merely another impediment to rest. Sitting up slowly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his thigh throbbing like a fresh wound. He sat there a moment, still wading through the fog of sleep as he absently rubbed the mangled muscle, slowly mustering the will to meet the day. He hobbled a bit to the window, his leg taking a few strides to loosen up enough to bend properly. As he pushed back the gauzy curtains that framed the windows, he saw the blanket of grey clouds off on the horizon. Sandor sighed, feeling every one of his thirty years, and then some, knowing the damp day would be long and taxing for him.

His desk sat in the far corner of the room, next to the other large window, where he often laid out his clothes for the following day. He pulled on the soft black sweater and his old brown trousers, sitting in the angular armchair to pull on thick wool socks. He groaned when he went to stand, loathe to leave the deep seat of the chair. Sandor padded his way down to the bathroom, as quiet as the tired old floorboards would allow, mindful of his house guest. Cold water rushed into the wide basin of the pedestal sink and he cupped wide handfuls over his face and neck, a cold touch treading through his scars. He rose to meet his reflection, greeted by the same grey-eyed face that stared back at him every morning.

It would be a lie to say he didn’t often wish to wake up whole. Unscarred.

Yanking an old towel from the porcelain ring near the lighted mirror, Sandor patted his skin dry and pushed away from the sink with no small bit of resignation. He found himself stuck outside Sansa’s door, straining to hear any sound of her coming from within. He smiled to himself, hoping at least one of them got to sleep last night. Moving on down the stairs, each steep step angered the pain in his leg and he found himself frowning by the time he hit the kitchen door.

As he shuffled across the damp grass, he felt the spray of dew on the tips of his fingers. The morning smelled new and earthy, like an unturned pile of fall leaves, and Sandor found himself welcoming the kind of chill that pinked his cheeks and settled contentedly in his bones. He liked summer just fine, even felt comfortable on the long humid days of August, but he loved the insular quiet of winter. It better suited his serious nature.

Approaching the larger red barn set back on his land, enclosed by several grazing runs, Sandor could hear the bleating of his goats growing louder and more animated. He always started with the goats, and for good reason. Kid was the best term he could apply to the animal. Even as they matured, goats were still mischievous little hellions, their playful antics never failing to make him smile. He slid open the large barn door, letting daylight flood the straw covered floor.

Sandor greeted the little flock of grey and white goats that bumped and brushed past him, eager to stretch their legs and roam in their little enclosure. He turned to the back of the barn lined with a row of stalls, coming upon Stranger, a large black stallion that had been his horse since his teenage years. As driven by anger as Sandor had once felt, Stranger had calmed in his older years, becoming remarkably tolerant of the other animals who shared his home.

“Hey, buddy,” Sandor greeted his friend with a gentle scratch on the small grey marking between his eyes. Sandor was quite fond of the old shit and looked forward to their morning routine together. Stranger snorted and tossed his mane, his giant head bumping against the large man working a brush over his flank. Like salting the tables at the shop, Sandor found an immense amount of peace in the quiet moments he spent moving his hands over the stallion’s impressive form. Stranger’s ears perked when he heard Sandor hang the brush back on its peg, the sound a signifier for the treat to come. Sandor laughed, dipping his hand into the small metal bucket hanging from the stall. “There ya go, you old brute.” Stranger disappeared the two little crab apples with loud smacking chomps, leaving a trail of slime in the well of Sandor’s broad palm. _Delicious_. Stranger snorted his agreement before trotting off to the pasture to join his goat friends.

Sandor made his way down the dusty, straw-covered hall, stooping low to pet his hound dog, Lady. She was a tired old girl and barely lifted her head from the saddle blanket she was curled up on, but she let out an appreciative sigh at his touch. He replenished her water and food, giving her another vigorous pet before letting Jack the donkey out of the last occupied stall. The ornery old thing barely paid him any mind, keen to join the rest of the pack already at play.

After mucking the stalls, Sandor hauled the manure away to a small area near the road where other farmers could help themselves to his most plentiful crop. Once the feed and water were replenished for all his friends, he made his way back toward the house to the little chicken coop that sat just beside the smaller white barn. He checked the nesting box for eggs, hoping for a few brightly colored gifts to bring his new houseguest. Never ones to disappoint, his girls rewarded him with three turquoise eggs and one the color of sage. Sandor pillowed his treasures in the upturned hem of his shirt, smiling down at his strange and bearded little hens as they plucked incessantly at the bugs moving under the heavy cover of grass. He took a deep breath, the faint tinge of a neighbor’s woodstove carrying over the crisp breeze from the little house across the way. He looked back at his own home, a simple squarish rise whose greatest feature was the wide flagstone porch that opened into the kitchen, smiling at the blooms that caught his attention immediately. Flanking the wide stairs were two long flower beds, full of the tea roses his mother had planted in his youth. The deep green bushes boasted peach and pink colored booms hanging heavy with a sheen of morning dew. The last blooms of summer.

Sandor sat on the lowest step, cradling the little eggs in his lap, and produced the little field knife permanently holstered to his boot. Carefully plucking the slender stem between the barbs, he severed the bloom from the branch at a slight angle, the way his mother taught him, carefully piling them on the stone step beside him. Giving the thorns a slight push on their broad faces, he gentled the stems he arranged into a small bouquet. He was disinclined to stand back up, the brief time he spent seated causing his leg to stiffen again. Deftly balancing the eggs and the flowers, he pulled open the screen door, greeted by the scent of coffee strong on the air.

His eyes rolled slowly over Sansa as she stood before the sink, at her pale skin luminous and pearlescent teasing out through the soft yellow collar of his sister’s dress. Dotted with flowers and buttoning from chest to thigh, he found it near impossible to chase away the thoughts of how easily he could unburden her from the dress when she shyly met his eyes, her hands absently twisting and knotting the little belt that cinched her waist. And then he saw how the high crest of her cheek had darkened to the color of wine and he wanted to wring Harry’s fucking neck again.

“Morning, little bird.” Her long red tresses were unpinned, hanging loose about her shoulders, spilling onto the light blue sweater that fit her a bit too loosely. G _ods, she’s a beauty_. The way she blushed slightly and smiled warmly at him set his heart racing. Setting down the dish she had been drying, Sansa handed him a small green mug, the warm scent of coffee filling his senses. He smiled back at her, his large fingers brushing hers as he took her offering. “Thank you, you didn’t need to do that.”

“I wasn’t sure how you liked it, but I guessed black.” He nodded and rewarded her with a soft laugh, taking a long pull. “You’ve been up for a while, I take it?” She gestured past him, toward the pasture and his misfit menagerie roaming about the fields.

Sandor nodded, opening the little pouch he had made of his shirt, showing her the little cluster of eggs he had gathered. “The girls have given you a fine welcome this morning.” She plucked each egg from his shirt, setting them in a wide slotted strainer in a corner of the wide sink, a bright smile warming her face. Sansa’s eyes then shifted to the modest bouquet in the crook of his arm and her mouth fell open slightly as he bundled them together and slipped them into her hands.

“Are these for me?”

“My welcome gift for you.” She blushed deeply, turning her back to him as she reached for one of the blue tinted vases lined with dust on the sill of the kitchen window. He stood beside her, his dirty hands draped into the basin of the sink as he watched her fill the pitcher with water before sinking the blooms inside. She murmured a quiet _thank you_ before returning the vase to the window.

“Did you sleep well?” He scrubbed his hands in earnest, never able to rid them completely of the evidence of his work. Sansa sighed, tilting her head from side to side, her hair swaying over his bare forearm. She smelled clean and warm as she brushed up against him, her hands busied by the task of washing the little eggs.

“No, not well, but by no fault of your hospitality. Certainly better than another drunken night in the Edsel.” He laughed softly with her, both a bit tickled by the thought of her sleeping off a hangover in her car, nudging her playfully with his elbow. He reached for his coffee again, about to ask her how she liked her eggs when she left his side set to work. Before he could say a word, she was opening cabinets and pulling dishes and pans as if she had lived there for years. Leaning against the white enamel countertop between the sink and the stove, he watched as she deftly arranged his things into order. When she made to move for the sink, Sandor positioned himself defensively between her and the eggs.

“I can cook, you know.” Sandor couldn’t help but smirk, raising his brow at her, reminding her that he was, in fact, the man who provided her with every roast she’d eaten for the past decade. Sansa rolled her eyes playfully, pointing at the sink just past him, silently demanding the eggs. “Really, you don’t have to do this. I’m happy to make breakfast.”

“Sandor, give me the eggs.” Her tone was even, but kind and Sandor caved. He gently transferred the pastel orbs into the safety of her hands. Sansa smiled down at the eggs as if they were precious jewels before turning her grin on him, all rosy lips and pearly whites. “While I’m here, I’d like to do this for you, if you’ll let me.”

“Sansa, I didn’t offer you a place to stay so that you’d wait on me.” He had been taking care of himself for years, but it was more than just his pride. He wanted to unburden her with all that domestic horseshit for which she’d been trained her whole life. He knew how little men thought of the kind of time and energy their wives expended managing every aspect of a home. Hells, he watched firsthand as his mother worried every minute of her life over her husband and her children with only an early grave to show for it.

Sansa had turned away from him to set the pans over the burners before cracking the eggs into a large glass bowl. “I know you don’t expect anything from me, but I don’t know any other way.” To thank him, to live, she didn’t need to expound; he knew it was her routine and he knew she’d be lost without it. Sandor could tell she was fighting back tears as she stared down into the bowl, whisking yolks gently with a fork, her voice thick with sadness. Pushing off the counter, he closed the distance between them again, wanting to wrap his arms around her and lose all sense in the thick of her auburn hair. Instead, he stood beside her, their shoulders brushing together as she whisked, and he looked about for something to do. He eyed the white parcel of bacon he had brought home from the shop on the counter and snatched it away before she could protest. “Are you going to be this stubborn at every meal?”

Sandor let out a low chuckle, sliding the thick slabs of bacon into the hot pan, each point of contact issuing a satisfying sizzle. “I don’t like being idle any more than you, little bird.” Which was the truth. His father had wasted no time putting him and his brother to work the second they could reach the register or fold the thick butcher’s paper. His service in the military followed, giving him even more structure and responsibility. By the time he came home, he had a farm and a shop to run and no one to help. He hated lack of activity. Tossing the paper into the wastebasket, he glanced at Sansa who had stopped working, her eyes fixed on some indistinct point on the horizon. The light coming in from the large window in behind the sink cast her in a warm, diffuse glow and he was certain she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

He knew that she needed to get through the end of her marriage, presuming she didn’t take the idiot back and that any admission of his feelings for her would only complicate her gaining some modicum of independence. Sandor knew it would be unfair to her to unburden his heart now when she was at her most vulnerable. And he wasn’t sure he could survive her inevitable rejection. He resolved to be her friend, give her someone to rely on, and he would find a way to live without her once she was gone again. He had watched her marry someone else once before, he could only hope the next one was a little better.

“What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?” She wasn’t angry or disgusted to find him openly staring at her, her brow furrowed with concern instead. Her face fell and he watched as her own self-conscious anxiety take over, swallowing thickly. “What have I done wrong?”

“Nothing.” Sandor slid his hand over her against the edge of the counter, shaking his head slightly, never taking his eyes from her. “You deserve to be taken care of Sansa. I can’t say I’m very good at it, haven’t had any practice,” he admitted with a wry chuckle. “But whatever you need, I’m yours.” She didn’t avert her eyes this time as she struggled to keep the tears pooling in her watery eyes from falling. After a long moment holding each other’s gaze, Sandor gave her hand a gentle squeeze before turning his attention to the bacon hissing and popping on the stove.

 “Sandor?” The gentle clinking of her whisking ceased again behind him, and he could sense her gazing at him intently.

“Hmm?” He slightly cocked his head back to her better, leaning away from the hissing pan. He couldn’t remember the last time he shared his kitchen with anyone and he smiled to himself, enjoying the easy rhythm they found in their shared endeavor.

“Why have you never married?”

_Well, so much for easy._

His learned reaction was anger and he found it took far more effort to stay calm, trying not to snap at her for what seemed an unnecessary hit to his pride. He felt the span of his shoulders tightening, his arms bracing the edges of the gas range as he slowly framed his response. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Her voice was nearly a whisper, her hands plucking at the belt of the dress again. He sighed, his head falling forward, biting back the words of reproach instinctively forming on his tongue. “It’s just a question.”

“Don’t ask questions like that when you already know the answer. You aren’t stupid.” _Too harsh._ He heard her take in a sharp breath and when he turned to look at her, she was staring into the bowl of eggs, her pretty face contorted into a severe frown.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He could see Sansa tottering on an emotional edge, and he felt like an enormous prick for trying to push her to the other side. But he couldn’t understand how she could even think to ask that of him. He took a deep breath and rubbed his palms roughly over his face.

“You know why, Sansa. You of all people know why.” He turned to face her, leaning his back against the door of the stove. “You may be the only one left who knows what happened to me.” Her eyes shot up to his, her mouth dipping again with…disappointment. _Disappointment_. In what? In him? He wanted to remind her that there was a time when she didn’t look at him so easily when she let fear color her gaze. But he had already bitten at her and when he caught sight of the exhaustion in her eyes, he forced himself to be better than he was taught. “It was almost easier when I got back from the war, thinking I could meet someone. Most people just assumed my scars were just an injury from combat and if I were a smarter man, maybe I wouldn’t have corrected that assumption because once I do, they never look at me the same again. My father already covered up the truth once and it doesn’t seem fair to protect _them_ since they’re all dead. It’s _my_ fucking face now.” He watched her face soften, feeling a renewed wave of anger break over him. “I don’t want your pity, Sansa.”

“I don’t pity you.” Her tone turned immediately as if the thought of pitying him were as offensive to her as being the object of pity offended him. Sansa shouldered him away from the stove, pinching a knob of butter into a pan she had set out to heat. As she waited for the butter to brown and froth in the pan, he could see her rolling the words she wished to speak to him around in her mouth. “And I didn’t ask to hurt you, I asked because I’d like to get to know you as more than just the man that cuts my meat. You’re right, you know, neither of us has anyone left and we do have this shared history between us, and I think that means something. I want to know the man who raises chickens that lay little jewels, the man who goes from picking me flowers to snapping at me in a matter of _moments_.” She lifted the glass bowl above the pan, slowly pouring the deep golden mix into the bubbling butter. He watched her look around for a moment, instinctually reaching around her to the left, proffering the little grey earthenware crock that held his salt. She nodded something akin to thanks, but he could tell she wasn’t ready to back down from him yet. Sansa turned back to the stove and he moved beside her again, tending to the bacon on the back burner. “You keep speaking as though you have nothing to offer, but that is simply not true.”

“Godsdamn it, Sansa, I don’t need you to do this.”

“Will you just let me say what I want to say?” She threw the wooden spoon she had been stirring the eggs with at him, the slender utensil bouncing off his chest and into his open hands. She was turned to him now, her bony little finger stabbing his sternum as if to punctuate every word she uttered. “You gave me your unsolicited opinions about my life, so yes, I think I _have_ to do this.”

Sandor swallowed thickly, trying his damnedest not to smirk at her. She just looked so damn beautiful, her anger radiating through her skin, darkening her eyes. She looked passionate and wild, every bit the little feral wolf Catelyn had tried to tame. And she had a point. “You have this house and a business and you’re…kind.” Her tone was almost pleading then, her open palms coming to rest against his chest. He looked down at her touch, searing his skin through the thin wool of his sweater, and back up to her stormy eyes. Her affection, her words, every bit of this exchange was so foreign to him and it made him itch. “And you’re honest. Do you know how rare that is? You don’t get to act as if that is nothing.” Her calm touch turned into a forceful shove at that, propelling him back a half step as Sansa turned back to the eggs, immediately searching her surroundings for the spoon she had chucked at him moments before. Wordlessly, he offered it back to her and she tore it from his grip with an angry scowl. “It’s not nothing.”

“Sansa,” he watched as she furiously stirred the eggs, pulling the pan from the burner when they’d formed into soft little pillows. “You know who did this to me, you knew my father. _Gregor_. You know the kinds of men that made me.” Sandor tried to keep his tone calm, not wanted to set her off again. “I’m quiet because I’m so damned angry, Sansa. I don’t let people in because I am _so damned angry_.”

“I’m angry, too!” Sansa turned away from him then, her arms shooting up in a gesture of exasperation. “I may not wear my scars on my face, but I have them all the same. You don’t get to have the monopoly on anger, Sandor!” His arm shot out as she tore the little half apron from her waist, grabbing her wrist gently. He coiled an arm around her waist as he turned her to him, the hand around her wrist drifting slowly up her arm, turning his fingers to brush his knuckles against the frantic pulse thumping against the skin of her neck. He buried his long fingers in her hair, the strands soft and cool as they spilled through his touch, her pretty pink mouth glistening as she panted in his arms. From anger, from anticipation, it didn’t matter anymore. Everything was starting to have the same intoxicating effect on him.

Tiny hands palmed the discrete planes of his face, framing him, making him whole, and it undid his resolve to hold back. Every reason to give her time and space fled from his mind, his singular and defining desire for her his only motivation. Her eyelids slid shut as he brought his mouth to hers, swallowing the breath from her lips as he ran his tongue against hers. The taste of her set his heart galloping in his chest, his hands clutching her desperately to him. Their lips drifted apart after a moment, her body feeling slack and boneless under his touch, their heaving lungs seeking air. Her blue eyes fluttered open with a smile, steamrolling him with the heat of her gaze. Her hands had drifted down his arms, clutching him tightly just above his elbows. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to make her sigh into his mouth like that again, wanted everything she would give him.

“Do you feel better, little bird? Now that you got all that off your chest?” Sandor ran his thumbs over her face in slow, sweeping arcs, wiping over the flush he had put there. She nodded, her perfect teeth gently tucking her swollen lip back into the warmth of her mouth he could still felt on his own. Sandor gently brushed his fingers over her tender cheekbone, threading his hand through her hair. Sansa’s head lolled into open palm, massive enough to palm her from chin to brow. Tears fell from her eyes, rolling into the deep creases of his weathered skin. She smiled sadly, nuzzling his hand before pulling away and pulling herself together.

“It’s been so long since anyone has _touched_ me.” Her tiny voice carried the words like an apology and her confession landed a little too close for him. There hadn’t been many women in his past, maybe a handful of wartime whores when his blood was up, but no one of lasting importance. Certainly, no one who looked at him fondly or made him feel worthy of anything close to warmth. He had found himself touching her with little thought for consequence, fueled by the tactile response Sansa seemed to have to his presence. _How could anyone go a single day without touching her?_ And then that familiar stab of anger. _How could anyone_ hit _her?_

“Can I kill him now? I’d really, _really_ like to kill him.” She laughed deeply at that, her watery smile broad and true, the sound of her happiness damning him. He was utterly and completely fucked. He was in love. One kiss had confirmed every hazy uncertainty he had formed regarding his feelings for her. He watched as she knuckled the tears from her cheeks, nodding toward the stove.

“Let’s eat first and see if you’re still feeling murderous after, shall we?” He realized then they never did eat the night before and he was sure she was starving. He chuckled low and deep,  arranging the eggs and bacon on each plate she set out. He cocked his head at the table, taking both of their plates in hand, pulling the chair out for her with his foot.

“Best not to kill on an empty stomach.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The move-out. If I can be a good little Runt and get all my chores done tomorrow, you'll get a new chapter Monday.
> 
> I love you all! Thanks for all the feels and support!

The whole morning, Sansa felt as if she were spiraling out of control. From the moment he pressed the little bouquet of tea roses into her hands, everything felt off. He couldn’t possibly know they were her favorite, could he? When she gingerly accepted what she imagined to be a thorny embrace, though she would smile and thank him for his kindness, she was pleased to find the rugged butcher of Cold Spring had sheared the stems for her. It was simple and small and hardly worth going to an emotional state over, but Sansa found herself wanting to tell him what a damn catch _he_ was. She could remember the only time Harry ever bought her flowers, an obscene amount of blue carnations, his peace offering after some horrible row they’d had after Sansa detected an unfamiliar perfume on the collar of his shirt. She accepted Harry’s offer with a conciliatory smile, forgetting to change the water, _terribly_ disappointed when she had to pitch them two days later.

She wasn’t sure what came over her in Sandor’s kitchen. She had thrown a spoon at him like a sulky child, much to her chagrin, and _yelled_ at him. Told him she was angry. Well, she was angry, godsdamnit, and for once in her life, she wouldn’t let someone stifle that. Least of all the man who defined his very being with bellowing disdain. Gods, her blood was up just thinking about it. But instead of throwing her out or reminding her of her place like Harry would often do, Sandor Clegane plucked her out of thin air, kissing the breath from her lungs.

And then he offered to kill her husband.

Jokingly. Well, jokingly in the sense that if Sansa merely asked with a wink and a nod, he’d gladly uphold his end. It felt shamefully good to laugh at such a morbid offer, and it felt a bit like flirting. Sandor grinned and her stomach flipped. She never thought a man who butchered meat all day could be so subtle and easy to be around. He was honest and a little rough, wholly uncouth even, but it made all the hurt and betrayal she was feeling seem reasonable. Sandor was kind and tactile and funny in a way that was all his own and it felt so _good_ to be touched.

So good, she went a put her foot in her mouth.

“Will you take me home tomorrow?”

As soon as the words left her, Sansa felt the palpable disappointment radiating from him. His already somber face fell, a deep racking breath shuddering through him as he nodded his acquiescence. A grave frown polluted her features. She hadn’t meant to offend his kindness or his affections, but his sister’s dated closet wouldn’t do her much good for long and she didn’t think it strange to want her own small clothes and personal things. Not to mention how she feared what Randa would do to the few precious things she left behind.

_He thinks I mean to go back to Harry._

Sansa stifled a laugh, thinking him jealous, but Sandor scowled and she felt as though she had merely added insult to injury. “No, no!” She pleaded, tucking away the nervous laughter, sliding into the chair closest to him. “I’m getting this all wrong!” Sansa tugged him back into his chair as he rose and instead of pulling away, he merely looked down at her with impatience and exhaustion. “I don’t mean to offend you after you’ve done so much for me and I certainly didn’t mean it after that _kiss_ …”

“Spare the chirping, little bird. I’ll take you back to your _husband_ if you want.” Sandor was holding back, she could tell, and his eyes kept drifting down to her swollen cheek and she knew he just wanted to level Harry. The thought of Sandor Clegane hitting her husband just once, just one good punch, gave Sansa an obscene amount of satisfaction. She wondered if it would ever come to that and how Harry’s handsome face would puff and swell, how the purple bloom would _mark_ him. Sansa grinned at Sandor and squeezed his hand.

“I’m never going back to Harry.” He unclenched his jaw but remained stoic and seemingly nonplussed by her admission. “If I wanted to leave, I could, you know, I do have my own car.” His eyes snapped up to hers, two intensely focused grey beams making her skin prickle pleasantly. _It feels good to tease_. “I just find myself needing to ask you another favor, Sandor.”

“Out with it, little bird.” He relaxed and his tone softened, she noted with a smile, and he knocked her foot gently with the toe of his boot. She bit her lip instinctively, a frantic heartbeat away from exploding under his gaze.

“I want to put Harry behind me as quickly as I can and getting things out of that house is the first step.” She stilled, thinking about what an absurd and enormous thing it was to ask to move her whole life into his house. “I promise I won’t bring much back, there are just some things I inherited and my clothes and such. I’ll keep everything neat and out of the way.” Sansa felt as though she were pleading her case to Catelyn, some desperate cloying to get her way. Sandor took a deep leveling breath before clearing their plates and washing them without a second thought.

“Of course, I’ll help you.” As she watched the muscles in his back sink and roll with the movements of his hands, she realized she would need to be more careful with the man before her, his heart every bit as big and scarred as him.

And so, she found herself trying desperately to still her trembling hands as they made their way to her suburban home. Sansa’s heart was battering the inside of her chest and she found herself stealing sidelong glances at him, allowing herself to truly look and map him. She hadn’t thought about how vulnerable driving must make him feel, his vulnerability on display and inescapable. She feared she was grinning like an idiot, but the way his own face flushed when he caught her looking, she found she didn’t much care. _He looks like a boy_ , she mused. She had forgotten that he ever was one, really, having reset him in her thoughts the way he was the day he had come home from Scotland. She had a memory that always threatened to bubble to the surface when she let her mind wander to Sandor. A memory she suppressed, desperately trying to shield herself from the nauseating sense of self-loathing that colored her recollection.

It was one of two times Sansa could recall being reprimanded within an inch of her life by Catelyn Stark. 

She’d reacted horribly the first time she and Sandor met during the first year they lived in Cold Spring. Sansa was a child, no more than eight, and she’d never seen boys that looked like Gregor and Sandor, let alone boys that scowled and wore a mask of scars. Her mother was irate with the uncharacteristic gaping her child was doing in front of the badly burned butcher’s boy and dragged Sansa out of the store. Catelyn scolded Sansa the entire way home, admonishing her daughter for staring so openly at Sandor.

“Not everyone has it as easy as you, Sansa Stark.” Sansa remembered crying in that desperate, suffocating way children seem so prone. “How would you like it if the entire world stared at you, mouth agape, in horror?” Sansa couldn’t ever remember her mother being so angry, even at her ill-behaved sister, and she immediately internalized the deep shame she felt. And then, as only mothers know how, Catelyn really drove the point home. “There is a boy under those scars., Sansa. A boy who doesn’t get to be a boy any longer. Whatever happened to burn him robbed him of what little childhood he has left and you will be lucky to know many more years of your own.”

Somehow, Sansa hadn’t really thought about him _being_ burned. She never thought to question his looks, merely curious about the rough and angry texture of his skin where hers was cold and smooth. She found herself inexorably drawn to him, her inverse, and his forgiveness was of paramount concern.

One afternoon, while George and Catelyn were going on about some town gossip, Sansa found herself alone with Sandor as he cleaned up a spill near the door. Some boy in the middle of a tantrum had torn through the store as his mother desperately tried to tame him, smashing several bottles of milk in his wake. Seeing him on her side of the counter was strange enough, let alone the feeling of how truly large he was without the cases and scales in the way. Sansa took a deep breath, steeling her nerves to deliver the apology she felt compelled to offer when he began to speak to her. Well, to the floor, really, hushed and low so only she could hear.

“It was my brother,” Sansa watched as he deftly nudged and eased the spill into nothing as the braided ropes wicked the milk away. “My brother did this to my face over a _toy_ ,” Sandor spat, his gaze ghosting over her as she did her best not to look away from the way his eyes were burning in anger. “Don’t go finding yourself alone with him, you understand me?” Sansa felt herself nod, disconnected and disconcerted at the thought of being alone with Gregor.

“I am sorry for my behavior, Sandor. It was very rude of me to stare like that,” His hands stilled around the mop and he gave her a little nod, his eyes still cast down at the floor. “I do hope you’ll be able to forgive me.”

“Chirp, chirp, chirp, little bird.” _The first flip_. He nodded at her with a grin as Catelyn made to steer Sansa away with a mere touch of her hand. “I forgive you.”

And then she remembered the other time Catelyn Stark nearly shook her to death. The day Sandor came back from the war. Gods, but she had been a fool. She thought back on how it all must have looked to him, some silly girl he exchanged letters with, throwing herself at him in the middle of his shop. A gangly mess of uncoordinated arms and legs actively working against her, emboldened by a surge of romantic longing stoked by their long-distance connection. When she had been writing him, she never even thought that he wouldn’t write back. There was an etiquette to correspondence; you get a letter, you respond. Periodically over the years when Sansa was simply not allowed to accompany her mother during the weekly shopping, Sansa would pull out the neat little bundle of letters, still tucked neatly in their envelopes, and immerse herself in the world he had painted for her. There were ups and downs in his letters, a nuance she didn’t discover until she was much older, and now she wondered the depth of experiences and emotions he could never put into words. But she was young and the whimsy of writing to a soldier who survived the perils of war was intoxicating to her. When he finally agreed to come home, she spent every quiet moment imagining their reunion and what it would be like to speak to him after so long.

And then when her moment came, she kissed him.

She had only meant to hug him, having stolen away from her mother’s side while Catelyn dallied at the dry cleaners, but as Sansa neared him, she suddenly felt so much taller. She was nowhere near as tall as him, of course, but she was no longer the girl she had visualized by his side and suddenly the distance between them seemed like nothing.

And now he's gone and stolen his own kiss. Silence stretched the cab between them as Sandor parked in Sansa’s empty driveway on the quiet, tree-lined street. Had things been different between her and Harry, Sansa supposed she might feel a bit of guilt at the kiss that hijacked her mind, her fingers etching the memory into her lips as her thoughts would drift. She found her heart racing as she wondered if he would kiss her again.

“Ready to do this, little bird?” He brushed his knuckles gently against her hand resting on the seat, dragging her from her daydream. It felt foolish to be lost in thought about someone sitting mere inches from her, but aside from the knowing grin on his face, he hadn’t mentioned what happened between them. Or what it meant. She supposed she was grateful for that, she hadn’t been able to properly think straight since she found the love note in Harry’s dry cleaning. She turned to Sandor and a smiled, sliding off the bench and onto the driveway. Sandor held his hand out to her and she disappeared her hand into his grasp, a ground for her frayed nerves. She never expected the scene that awaited them inside.

Sansa was dismayed to see her typically immaculate house in an alarming state of upheaval. She was about to apologize for the state of her home when Sandor took her by the elbow and guided her away from a pile of glass just inside the door. They walked through the living room to the dining room, dinner still served and set around the table, but now she was clear-minded enough to see the wine spattered carpet below the chairs. Smirking at the sight, she felt a swell of pride for the way Randa cried and carried on.

It was clear that Harry had exorcised his anger after she left, a narrative sketched by the trail of broken glass around the room. Her tiger lily’s lay in a mangled hear of wilted blooms and shards of their wedding crystal. She frowned, plucking the severed stems of her mother’s sherry glasses from the rubble. _A damn shame._ The glass in the framed wedding photo on the dining room wall was fractured and hanging limply on the nail. The room stank of spoil and rot and Sansa felt nothing short of shame.

“You know how to throw quite the party, Miss Stark.” When Sansa spied him over her shoulder, Sandor had cocked a brow at her with a grin, his muscled forearms crossed over his chest. Having him there, the scene of her greatest battle was surreal. And funny. Sansa found herself laughing with him, grateful for a bit of levity.

“Yes, I am a most infamous hostess by now, I’m sure.” She sighed, scanning the wreckage for other casualties, spying familiar patterns and colors in the destruction. Sandor was moving about the table now, turning her fallen chairs upright again. She supposed she should think about what it was that she wanted since she had him there waiting for her, but everything seemed to belong to someone else now. She cocked her head at the two-day-old meat and vegetables beginning to rot and a bitter realization gripped her. “Do you suppose he would expect me to clean this up if I had come back home?”

“What do you think, little bird?” Sandor’s tone was honest but lacked the harsh edge she expected and she supposed she knew the answer to that already. Sandor was looking at the table closely, almost reverently, as he flicked his fingers through the many puddles of melted ice and wine beginning to cloud the finish below. “A shame he ruined this table, though.” Sandor brushed his knuckles against a pristine patch of well-oiled walnut, and Sansa felt his touch as if it were her skin.

“I can fix that,” she offered with a shrug. _A little toothpaste and a gentle wash followed by a quick swipe of Tung Oil._ “I’ve had to do it before.”

“Well, I don’t suppose I’d ask you to fix Harry’s table, now would I?”

“Would you like a new table, Sandor?” She hated the thought of leaving the set behind and judging from the way he was touching it, he clearly shared her appreciation for the design and craftsmanship. She started clearing the plates away from the table, stacking them neatly on the service window.

“Don’t want Harry’s table.”

“Not Harry’s table.” That seemed to get his attention. “Now do you want it?” That earned her a grin and a nod of approval. “Good, then help me clear.”

“I’ve half a mind just to push it all on the floor with the rest, let that new broad of his clean it up.” Sandor started picking up glass, piling the pieces neatly on one of the large rimmed charging plates. She _wanted_ to leave Harry in an even worse state than he had left things for her, but she wouldn’t do that. She wasn’t going to come home and clean up his mess, but she wouldn’t add to it. She moved to help with the glass, once all the plates and servers were cleared, but Sandor pushed her hands away gently, shaking his head. “No use in both of us cutting ourselves. Why don’t you get what you need from the bedroom? I can manage this. Harry have any tools?” She knew he’d be surprised if she said yes.

“There’s a little box under the sink.” Sansa should have moved then, but she found herself rooted, her eyes locked on his from across the table. It was the same look she saw on him the morning before when he held her to his lips by her hair. Her skin had never been so electric. She unfurled her hand over her mouth, letting her fingers slide over her lips that still burned from his kiss. She watched as he clenched his jaw and her hand fell away when she realized she was giving herself away. Sandor’s face reddened and he grinned openly at her.

“Best get a move on, little bird.” _Or else_. His tone was low and husky and she practically felt it vibrate through her.

Sansa put a hand on her chest and breathed deeply, making her way quickly to the bedroom. The scene there wasn’t much better, though there was significantly less glass than in the dining room. Harry had ripped her drawers and her side of the closet apart, a few of her dresses torn and trampled. She wasn’t sure what Harry _thought_ he was looking for, but there was only one thing Sansa had a mind to hide, and the little bundle of letters was nowhere to be found in the room they shared. Sansa bent down, fishing under the bed with a sigh, her hand catching on the smooth plastic handle of her grey suitcase. She popped it open on the bed, amidst the heaps of her smallclothes and blouses, gathering her favorite garments as she sifted decisively through the mess. Everything she saw on the floor was lost, a distinct boot print on lavender chiffon making her frown, so she turned her attention to the few dresses and sweaters left hanging in the narrow closet.

The rosewood box where she kept jewelry and keepsakes was lying on top of her dresser, cleaved in half at the hinge, a strand of her mother’s pearls scattered about. Her slender fingers sifted through the tangled mess Harry had made, fishing out earrings and pendants left to her by the Stark and Tully women before her. She scooped the loose pearls and the embellished fish hook clasp into a little pouch Sansa made with a scarf. _At least it can be restrung_. Looking around the room, she found little else she wanted to take with her, feeling almost guilty as if she were rooting through a stranger’s belongings. Sandor had been watching her from the doorway, his forehead resting on the back of his hand. There was a fine sheen of sweat across his neck, but he didn’t look tired. He looked furious.

“You about ready?” If there was something more he wanted to say then, he must have held back for her sake. Sansa pushed off the dresser and leaned into him when he lifted the suitcase from her, his free hand resting on the back of her neck. She led him to the kitchen, intending to go out the door that opened into the carport when she paused at the counter, most of her chocolate cake still standing on the little ivory cake stand. First, Sansa slid the little silver house key free from the ring it shared with the larger key to the Edsel. She pressed it to the countertop with a gentle _clink_. Glancing down. Sansa took one last look at the rings on her left hand before twisting them loose, her fingers brushing over the soft indentations left behind on her skin. She stacked the rings neatly next to the key and started for the door. Sandor’s hand caught her by the elbow gently, stilling her for a moment. “You sure about all this?” Sansa followed his gaze to her little offering on the counter and returned to him with a smile.

“They were his mother’s, they never belonged to me.” He opened the door for her, following closely behind her, locking the door before pulling it shut. Sansa crossed the little carport to the small storage closets on the far side of the wall. Sandor continued to the truck, putting her suitcase away on the passenger seat, returning to take the small blue case that housed her paints and a wooden box she’d had since she was a girl. It was a place for her sewing and the things she wanted to hide from her mother and later Harry. _Letters from a certain young man._ The man who was grinning at her as he led her back to the truck. They arranged the new additions in the bed of the truck, Sansa’s eyes drawn to the little ivory knobs and buttons of her hi-fi. She shot him a questioning look that melted his self-satisfied smile into a dour frown.

“You took the radio?”

Sandor shrugged his broad shoulders, looking a bit…caught. Sandor kicked the truck’s rear tire and huffed out a petulant sigh. “I’ll put the damned thing back if you want. I just thought it was a nice radio and you should have it.” He dug into the neatly lain parts of her tables and neatly tucked chairs, trying to extract her little German radio.

“Oh, I want the radio.” She let him help her into the truck, his hand lingering on her arm a moment longer than necessary, excited by the proximity of his body to hers as he slid in beside her. “Harry never could work the damn thing anyway.”

They drove away from her little cul-de-sac and back onto the side roads that led out of town. As the houses thinned and the yards grew larger and greener, Sandor brought his arm around her on the back of the seat. They rode in silence down the dusty back roads, the tips of his fingers grazing her neck with every bump they passed over.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I can ever say this enough, but you are all magic and I love you. Thanks for all the feedback and support!

Living with Sansa came with a unique set of challenges Sandor never expected he’d have to face. For one, she was always around, and not that he was _really_ complaining, but it left him little time to himself. Sure, there were the hours between when he went to bed and when sleep would finally close in on him, but Sansa was never far from his thoughts.

She insisted on starting the day with him, making him linger in the kitchen for a bit while a pot of coffee brewed. She started wearing dark cigarette style trousers and downy mohair sweaters in soft pastel colors instead of the dresses he always saw her wearing. Sandor liked the casual way she styled her hair in a low ponytail, her bouncing copper waves a constant distraction as she moved. She would chirp at him over coffee, asking how he slept. _Awful_. Asking about his plans for the day. _Same old shit, little bird_. But his terse replies never seemed to dampen her bright mood, her smiles easy and her company unassuming and pleasant. Sansa was always on his heel, eager to be his pretty little shadow. _To make herself useful_ , she reasoned.

Well, who was he to deny a little help?

She took to watering and feeding his little herd without complaint, learning all the names he had given the goats, giggling whenever they rushed by her to get out into the yard. She was even good-natured when one particularly feisty kid, Lucy, chomped down on her hair and gave it a good yank. Sandor’s head shot up when he heard Sansa yelp, but she was laughing in an instant, swatting the little grey goat on its flank. It wasn’t long before she was trying to help him cart off the muck from the stalls, frowning at the way he limped around the yard. She meant well, he knew that, but there was no way he was going to let Sansa Stark shovel shit for him. She would shake her head when he made it clear there was no budging on the matter, settling down on the old black saddle blanket with Lady. Lady looked the most grateful for the new addition to her morning routine with Sandor, soaking up every bit of Sansa’s proffered affections with a goofy, tongue lolling grin.

It was no surprise that her favorite time of day was tending to the chickens. She had found a little metal egg safe _somewhere_ in his house and began using it to store her little prizes on the counter by the sink. It delighted her when he rattled off the names of his little brown and white hens.   _Natalie, Norma, Jean, Dorothy, Grace, Kim, Brigitte and Lana._ She was blushing, though he had hardly been flirting, and she shook her head at him with a laugh.

“A coop full of starlets, huh?”

“Maybe I just like pretty little birds,” he retorted with a grin. Sansa nudged him with her elbow, her fat bottom lip sucked between her teeth. Sandor had never thought he’d say it was easy to read a woman, but Sansa wore every thought racing through her head on her face and he knew she wanted to be kissed just as badly as he wanted to kiss her.

Sandor liked watching her tend to the rose bushes, sitting back on her heels, the delicate ridges of her spine drawing his eyes up her form. He noticed that she had pinched a few blooms from the bouquet he gave her and kept them in a little milk glass vase on her end table. He made a note to himself to try and change them out in a few days. Sandor had never known what to do with the roses, only knowing that he wanted to preserve them, the little bit of his mother he had left. Since his lack of intervention seemed to be keeping them alive, he allowed them to grow into an amorphous sprawl of blooms and creeping vines. In a matter of days, Sansa had tamed them back into more modest and shaped forms, a vase of tea roses on nearly every surface of his home from her trimmings. He didn’t know what to think about the fact that she was subtly changing things around or poking around the various cabinets and hutches whose existence he gave little consideration. She was suddenly everywhere, her scent in every room.

He was grateful for her efforts, on the farm and in the house. Having Sansa around not only gave him a bit of company after so many lonely years, but it gave him a more of his time back as well. He found himself rushing less and sitting more, better fed and more rested. After a week of having her around, the thought of her ever leaving seemed to dissipate and he found himself quietly appraising her skills on the farm and noted her growing contentment.

And as Sansa became more comfortable in his home, she grew bolder, taking over his kitchen at every meal.

The first night, she made a simple pot roast with a full complement of sides. She hadn’t been shy about raiding the little chest freezer he added to the mudroom, pulling out several parcels from the shop marked in his chiseled scrawl. He took home whatever didn’t sell or wouldn’t hold the two days the shop was closed, and it often went straight into the freezer. Meals were little more than necessary refueling missions and Sandor hadn’t met a plate he wouldn’t readily clear. When he was younger, he developed the awful habit of eating with greater concern for speed than grace, having learned that Gregor would snatch away Sandor’s plate once his own was clean. Their father never seemed to notice, and the two boys grew up eating like swine at a trough. Sandor had slowed down in the years since he lived on his own and from the first bite, it was clear that Sansa knew what she was doing, and he decided to savor the meal.

Sansa smiled when he asked if there was more and looked downright proud when he didn’t refuse dessert. She slid a thick wedge of pound cake before him, glistening with a sticky cherry red sauce. It was delicious and unexpected. Sandor cooked for himself every night, but he never made dessert. Never really thought about sweets at all. It became clear that Sansa had a bit of a sweet tooth, always eating passable portions of her dinner before she tackled a generous serving of every dessert. He left her at the door to her room that evening with a kiss to the corner of her mouth, later tasting her cake sweetened lips on his own. He could get used to dessert.

The next day he was welcomed home to a plate of pasta tossed in a simple sauce of olives and tomatoes with fresh bread and a large salad. It was simple but delicious, and Sansa smiled at him, though she seemed a bit distant and pensive that night. They shared a few shortbread cookies over a cup of coffee, listening to records on her hi-fi they put by the bay window in the living room. He sat in his armchair while she sat on the side of the couch nearest him, perched with a little sketchbook on her knees, her feet tucked up under herself. He smiled when he saw she was sketching out soft brown and white feathers and speckled green and blue eggs.

After he caught her eyes drifting closed and her head starting to bob, Sandor suggested they retire, walking her to her door with his hand curled about her elbow. Sansa was beautiful even under the thick haze of sadness or concern that blurred her edges that night. He leaned in to kiss the freckle just below her right eye, the one that was slightly large than the rest, the one that got swept up in the creases around her eyes when she smiled.

Thursday’s meal looked more like a feast and he felt certain that a major holiday or event had somehow escaped his attention. From the moment he walked in the door, Sansa chattered at him incessantly, prattling on about how she spent all day preparing this and cooking that, leading him to the table from her house. Every surface was covered with colorful dishes and some plates he didn’t recognize. There were neat little rows of brussels sprouts filling out a large teal patterned dish, a bubbling casserole next to a wide glass plate of the Osso Bucco he had cut for her the before. Roasted potatoes and creamed spinach filled out the little bowls interspersed amidst larger courses and he noticed she had poured him a glass of deep red wine. He declined the second glass of wine, but she forced a thick slab of German chocolate cake on him. He found himself digging into the whipped cream and cherry topped slice, sipping the little glass of port she had slipped in front of him at some point. _Torture_. He fell asleep in the armchair, the paper he had been reading crumpled against his chest, his long legs sprawled out before him. He was drunk and happy and she was smiling at him again. He woke to Sansa’s fingers running through his hair, her body floating beside him as he drifted up the stairs to bed, almost certain he still felt the warmth of her mouth against his as he sank into sleep.

The next morning found him still sated from the meal the night before, unsure when it was that he last slept so soundly and so deeply. He tossed an apple in his truck after he declined breakfast and she insisted that he have something other than coffee. He gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek before sliding into his truck and down the driveway. She stood there a moment longer than he expected, her pale hand extended into the air, waving him out of sight.

That night there was fried chicken and leftover sides from the night before and she served him a wedge of pineapple upside down cake when he had cleared his plate. It was a first for him and he thoroughly enjoyed it, reluctantly tearing himself away from her and across the hall after she kissed him soundly on the mouth.

When he woke the next morning, the sun a bit too bright and his stomach rolling, he pulled on his trousers to go out into the yard and found he had to suck in a bit to get them to button.

_She’s making me soft._

Sandor frowned, palming his leg as she chirped at him over the stove, motioning to the little silver mess kit-his battered, once blood-spattered mess kit-calling it _lunch_. He kept quiet, thinking about flies better caught with honey, and watched her flit about his kitchen. Sansa pushed a little glass of tomato juice next to his coffee, followed by a plate piled high with eggs and bacon, looking at him like he hung the godsdamned moon.

It didn’t irritate him as it may have once he saw it for what it was. She was taking care of him. Sure, she was probably bored out of her mind in his house all day, but she looked damn pleased with herself as she smiled at him, touching the hair at the nape of his neck. The last thing he wanted was to break whatever bond was forming between them by being some gruff ass, but she was driving him mad. She sat down, _finally_ , beaming at him as she daintily tucked into her breakfast.

He took a mouthful of eggs, wishing as he did every morning that she would cook a bit less, that he could get her to just sit down and relax. He may have taken her out of her home but he hadn’t broken her routine, and her days filled out just the same as it always had. He didn’t want to bark at her or complain about her kindness, but with her doing literally everything for him, he found there was little opportunity for him to do anything for her.

“What do you have planned today, little bird?”

His moniker for her never failed to put a smile on her face and he found himself using her true name less and less because of it. She shrugged, chewing through the food in her mouth before she made to speak. “I was thinking maybe a cassoulet for dinner, you have some garlic sausage in the freezer I could take out.” She cocked her head thoughtfully, her hair spilling down her shoulder, her mind running over some invisible list. “I thought I’d make a lemon tart for dessert. Do you like custard? I know it’s a divisive dessert. It is hard to find a tart that isn’t too _eggy_ or too _puckery_. I love a good lemon—”

“I’ll make you a deal, Sansa Stark.” Sandor teased with a mischievous grin, the path to his solution clear before him. His wrist shot forward, stabbing a bit of egg from her plate with his fork. He winked at her and she let out an affronted gasp that satisfied him more than it should. And then she smiled at him, her cheeks and lips flushed, and his heart set to hammering. “I’ll allow you to make us a simple-and I mean _simple_ -breakfast every day, but I will make us dinner.” Her mouth flew open in protest, but he merely fixed her with a playfully warning look and she laughed, nodding for him to go on. “If there are leftovers I can take for lunch, so be it, but I won’t have you going out of your way to make it for me. I can always just make a sandwich at the shop like I normally do. And by gods, if you get me as big as a house with all those _damned_ cakes, you’ll get your wish and have all those stalls to muck to your heart’s content.”

“Oh, hush already!” Sansa huffed goodnaturedly, rolling her eyes and snatched her plate back toward herself as he made to take another bite of her eggs. “I will agree to your dinner _armistice_ on one condition…”

“Name it.” Sansa reached forward, her pale fingers wrapping around his mug. She knocked back the last sip of his coffee, the last sip at all since he drained the pot. _Serves me right_.

“In exchange for agreeing to your ridiculous terms,” Sansa set his mug back in front of him, a smug smile tugging at the edges of her mouth. “You will let me cook Sunday dinner.”

“And why, little bird, would I agree to that?” He leaned back in the chair, turned so that his long arm curled around the curve of the backrest. He drummed his fingers against the tabletop, waiting for her response.

“Because you want me to be happy.” That hit the mark. “You’re off from work and it doesn’t seem right for you to have to cook.” She stilled his drumming fingers with her hand, his thumb reflexively stroking the freckled skin, silken and cool to his touch. He dragged his thumb over each of her long fingers, squeezing down to each tip, gently, smiling at the badly chipped polish on her fingers.

“Only if it makes you happy.” She ensnared her lip between her teeth in a broad grin and nodded. “Then I agree, you little tyrant.”

“I much prefer little bird,” she quipped with a haughty huff, rising to clear their plates. He pinched her arm playfully above her elbow as she reached in front of him and she gave a little jump. “Watch it, mister.” She piled the dishes skillfully on one arm, her free hand ghosting over the back of his neck as she passed, the cool fabric of her skirt skimming his arm. Sandor closed his eyes, fighting every urge to tell her that he loved her, to push her up against the table, to make her _sing_.

She was driving him mad.

Sansa saw him off to work, having somehow smuggled the metal lunch box onto his passenger seat. _Clever girl._ He slid into the truck, the door staying propped open by her cocked hip as she leaned against the window. The neckline of the pale-yellow dress she wore kicked up in the brisk morning breeze, drawing his eye to the valley between her breasts.

“Is there something you need?” She had been speaking he realized then, his eyes lifted to hers, the warmth coloring his face making him want to scowl in self-reproach. Her breathing was a bit quicker, but she looked more amused by him than offended. “I said I was going to do some shopping today,” she repeated, a bemused smile on her face as she poked his shoulder. “Do you need anything?”

“Just stop by and say hello, little bird.” Her face flushed again, and she nodded shyly, pressing the same soft kiss into his cheek that he gave her most mornings, as had become their custom. “See ya later?”

“Later,” Sansa agreed, pushing off the car, back toward the house. When he looked back at her before disappearing from the drive, she had tucked the tip of her finger pensively between her lips as she turned to wave him off.

She was driving him mad.

 

 

“Where’s my wife?” Sandor and Gendry looked up from their customers at the same time, drawn to the muffled hammering on the plate glass window. The door opened roughly a moment later, the signal bell crashing against the door as a disheveled Harrold Hardyng blew in. The man’s shirt was a rumpled mess and the smell of scotch coming off him was thick with sweat. Harry swaggered up to the counter, his blue eyes glassy with drink. Gendry shot Sandor a look as Sansa’s buffoon of a husband ambled past the now whispering women they had been waiting on, the first customers of the day.

“Not sure who you’re on about, buddy.” Sandor cast a questioning look at the girls before him, trying to play off the scene unfolding as though it were completely unexpected. The girls looked positively starved for gossip, lucky lottery winners who had drawn the best seats for the carnage about to unfold.

“You don’t know Sansa Stark?” Harry sneered, leaning clumsily against the display case, nearly pushing the girls out of the way to get closer to Sandor. “Find it hard to believe that since all my neighbors saw you moving her out of _my_ house earlier this week.”

Sandor paled, the women gasping and shaking their heads at the large butcher in reproach. He leveled a challenging glance at the man smearing his fingers all over the glass like a slob. He wondered if Sansa ever saw him like this and if she truly ever loved the idiot. “If you have something you want to ask me nicely, Hardyng, you’ll do it like a man and stop putting on a show for those two over there.” Sandor moved to the left of the large case and opened the countertop, reaching out to tug Harry roughly by the elbow. “You’ve done enough to damage your wife’s reputation as it is, don’t you think?”

Harry scowled, jerking his arm out of the butcher’s grasp, the sleeve of his shirt smeared with blood from Sandor’s hands.

“Get them out of here,” Sandor hissed through clenched teeth to Gendry, nodding toward the women. The boy nodded, with a grimace, hurrying the prying eyes along. Sandor pushed Harry through the rustling plastic partition where the hanging carcasses bumped and swayed from the rails on the ceiling. Harry looked a little green and Sandor smirked. “Now, ask me _nicely_ what you want to know, Hardyng.”

“Tell me where my godsdamned wife is, Clegane,” Harry’s tone was mocking, and it was taking a remarkable amount of self-restraint not to just strangle the idiot. “ _Please?_ ”

“Where she wants to be. If she wanted to be around the likes of you, she would have stayed and let you run around with every girl in Cold Spring.” Harry looked rabid, red with drink and his mouth near frothing in anger. Sandor prayed Harry would hit him first, so he could justify the rage about to bubble over inside of him. But Harry didn’t speak, merely swayed back and forth uneasily. “So, is that it? That’s why you came barreling into my store, banging on the windows and causing a scene? Some of us came to work instead of trying to find themselves at the bottom of a bottle.”

Sandor made to push past the drunken fool, but Harry, true to form, thought himself invincible. Harry pushed Sandor roughly, nearly compromising his tenuous balance in the act and a cruel smirk broke his smug, handsome face. “You think she really wants an ugly old _butcher_ like you?”

Sandor clenched his jaw, his patience frayed as he warred between being the bigger man he wanted to be for Sansa and shoving Harrold fucking Hardyng into the industrial meat grinder.

“You’re just a port in an inevitable storm,” Harry curled his lip into a sneer and let out a condescending chuckle. “Just a way for her to even the score against me, but she’ll be back. Sansa likes her men handsome and wealthy, not broken and scarred—” Sandor heard enough of Harry’s diatribe and without a second thought, let his fist connect with Harry’s _handsome_ face. The tottering drunk fell back into a side of pork, the animal’s deep red kidney surely leaving another bloody smear on his messy shirt as he crumpled to the floor. Harry was going to look like a frightening mess before he left the shop.

“That’s for the parting gift you gave your wife, you arrogant prick.” Sandor nudged Harry roughly with his boot, earning a pitiable whimper from the pathetic heap of a man. “If you ever touch her again, seek her out without her explicit permission, shit, if you so much as breathe and she doesn’t like it, I will fucking kill you. And you better believe this old, ugly butcher makes enough sausage every week to make you disappear.” Sandor didn’t issue threats idly, but it was a wonder he hadn’t kept pummeling Harry after the first hit. “If she wants to see you again, you’ll know.”

“How?” Harry whimpered, rolling onto his back.

“You really are a fucking idiot, aren’t you Hardyng?” Sandor yanked him off the floor, pushing him face-first into the business side of another hog hanging in his path. Harry looked queasy again and Sandor let out a cruel, mocking laugh.

“She’s a smart girl, Hardyng.” Sandor shot him a mocking wink as he pushed the drunkard onto the other side of the counter. “I’m sure she remembers her phone number.” Harry rubbed the swelling of his cheek, scowling as he nodded. “Now, get the fuck out of my shop.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'm nothing without you! I don't know if I'll ever get used to the amazing and kind feedback from all of you out there reading this! 
> 
> And of course, a special thanks to Toodleoo whose input on an early draft of this gave me some much-needed perspective on the direction of the story to come. 
> 
> See y'all Friday!

Sansa was watching for an opportunity to dart across the street to Clegane’s when a slender hand caught her by the elbow. Spinning on her heel, Sansa found herself face to face with The Jeynes. Dressed in complimentary color blocked dress suits, Jeyne Westerling and Jeyne Poole were the kind of friends that judged everyone else for the misfortune of not having been born a _Jeyne_. They wore the same rose-red lipstick and had the same ink-black curls falling to their shoulders in soft waves. The brims of their felt hats chafed as they passed whispers between their gloved hands, their attention fixed on Sansa’s destination.

 “Ladies, how are you?” Sansa attempted a genuine smile in her greeting, unsure why everything about her old life felt like such an effort. Sansa had known both girls for some time; Westerling had been Robb’s longtime steady before he went off to Korea and Poole had been Sansa’s first friend upon moving to Cold Spring. They had all grown up together and had gone on to attend many of the same classes at Barnard. They were even in the Junior League of Cold Spring together. _Or had been_ , Sansa amended bitterly. Given her rapidly deteriorating social status, Sansa would surely not be invited to ascend from a provisional to an active member when it came time to renew her membership. She was disappointed that she would miss the annual bake-off in the Spring. “What are you doing out here on the street?”

“Oh Sansa,” Jeyne Poole looked beside herself, her doleful eyes scouring her old friend with empty concern. “Don’t you know?”

“She doesn’t know,” Jeyne Westerling confirmed with a piteous sigh, her little hands crossing over her chest. She always wanted to be an actress, treating every social interaction as though she were on stage. “The poor girl doesn’t know.”

“What don’t I know, ladies?” Sansa found her patience wearing thin with the game, their feigned concern bordering on offensive as the two girls appeared to be milking whatever gossip they had.

“Well, we were in Clegane’s earlier buying meat when Harry came in positively _beside_ himself about you.” Westerling looked a bit too smug for Sansa’s liking and she found her face slipping into a frown. “We knew you and Harry were having a fight, but Sansa… _Sandor Clegane_?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Sansa’s stomach fell as she absorbed the implications of what the taller Jeyne had said. The truth suddenly seemed much more complicated than it had that morning in the little kitchen of the farmhouse. It seemed to her that her marriage had ended the moment Harry hit her, everything that came after feeling like a reward. Like freedom. But to everyone else, she was no different than she had been before. She was still married and though she hadn’t even slept with Sandor, her friends would hardly see a distinction. “What does Sandor have to do with anything?”

 “I mean, have you been seeing him this whole time?” Jeyne Poole was clutching Sansa’s arm, her eyes begging her to say that she had, to add another layer to the drama that was Sansa’s failing marriage. “He’s a nice enough man, but that face! You could never bring him home to your _parents_ with that face.”

“Well, then I guess it’s a good thing my parents are dead, Jeyne.” Sansa remained serene, but there was a flush of anger rising on her chest. The Jeynes had been at her mother’s funeral, after all. “Glad we had this moment to catch up, ladies, but if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to see to my errands.”

“Well, don’t you want to know the rest?”

“Oh yes, we haven’t even gotten to the _best_ part yet.” Jeyne Poole toned down her excitement when Sansa’s eyes flashed icily to hers.

Sansa hadn’t acted this way when Jeyne Poole’s husband had gotten an apartment in the city and the poor girl had turned into a shaking mess in Sansa’s kitchen. Sansa had tried to comfort her, rubbing her hand reassuringly over Jeyne’s back as her friend sobbed. Sansa had been disappointed with how quickly Jeyne Westerling had gotten married after Robb died but she had been raised well enough never to mention how Jeyne’s eldest son looked surprisingly like her brother when _he_ was a boy. No, they were preying upon her because _she_ left.

“What other news are you two just _dying_ to share with me?” Sansa felt as though she were being caged in, her _friends_ bobbing and practically smirking as they recounted the events of the morning for her.

“So, Harry comes in, entirely despondent,” Jeyne Poole waxed, setting the stage for some great drama.

“Truly wrecked, Sansa,” Westerling agreed with a sad shake of her head.

“And then Clegane took Harry in that disgusting back room with all the hanging animals and _hit_ him.” Jeyne Poole’s eyes widened as she tapped her fist on Sansa’s arm. “Really let him have it, Sans.”

“Harry came out looking like Clegane cut him, but it was just from all the blood from the meat.” Jeyne Westerling wrinkled her nose in disgust, her shoulders giving a dramatic little shutter. It took Sansa a moment to register what they were saying and why Harry would have sought her out there. It certainly wasn’t the only place she shopped. “Harry said the neighbors saw _the butcher_ moving your things out of the house.” _There it is._ Westerling reminded Sansa a bit of Randa at that moment and it made her glower at the woman before her.

“He’s a friend and he helped me get my things out of Harry’s house,” she offered by way of explanation, though she hardly felt she owed them one. The girls looked unsatisfied with that, glancing sideways at one another with apparent skepticism. There was no point in Sansa trying to explain herself, they had already drawn their conclusions. All she would do is give them more to whisper about.

“We had no idea things were _so_ bad, Sansa.” Jeyne Westerling looked smug, as though she had won some unnamed competition between her and Sansa. “We had no idea you were getting a _divorce_.”

“My Theo heard all about it last night at the bar. Seems poor Harry’s been drinking himself sick since you left.”

That knocked the air out of Sansa’s lungs.

Poor Harry.

Poor _Harry_?

Sansa was pretty sure Harry had gotten his nose dirty plenty in the years leading up to that horrible dinner party.  But no, _poor_ Harry.  She supposed she was grateful for the slap he gave her. Without it, she would have tried to stay and win him over again. Not that the girls noticed. Sansa supposed her face looked close enough to normal, the yellowish specter of his hand disguised by a swipe of peach colored blush, a trick her mother taught her when she caught Arya’s elbow when the girls were in a skirmish about something. Just another domestic skill.

Poor Harry.

Sansa had left the mess Harry made after their dinner, taking the few possessions she brought into their marriage. She had taken the clothing and jewelry he hadn’t destroyed, her paints, her radio. All she wanted from him was the Edsel and an easy separation.

Poor Harry.

Poor Harry was, with any luck, heaving up the contents of his stomach somewhere, his face swollen and red, just as hers had been. Sansa rose to her full height, squaring her shoulders and doing everything she could to still the quaking that would define her voice. Heart hammering in her chest, head swimming with rage, she leaned in toward the women, their smug smiles dissolving into apprehension.

“ _Poor_ _Harry_ is fucking his secretary. Is anyone talking about that?” The words fell from her lips like honey, her saccharine tone lending an unstable menace to her manner. There was a broad smile on her face, her hands clenched tightly around the leather handles of her purse. At least with the gloves, no one could tell how hard she was clasping the bag. “And I don’t think she’s the first, certainly not the last, so yes, I am divorcing him. I will not be Harry’s fool any longer while he fucks everyone but me!” Sansa’s voice had carried further than she intended, several wide-brimmed hats rotating in time down the block. Sansa continued in a hushed tone, looking pointedly toward Jeyne Poole. “Wait until it happens to you and then tell you can tell me _poor Harry_.”

That silenced The Jeynes and Sansa knew she had said more than enough. She darted forward into the street, deftly dodging the fender of a white-over-black Fairlane that came a bit too close, hurrying into Sandor’s shop and away from the stunned girls she left on the curb. Perhaps she should have felt more guilt at how quickly she found herself moving on, but why should Harry be the only one to get what he wants?

Sandor’s shop was empty, nearly closed, and Gendry’s head bobbing mechanically over the case as he worked was the only movement within. He looked up when the door chimed, his tired but genial expression falling when he saw her. Sansa felt a clawing in her stomach, everything around her charged and electric where it had once felt so pedestrian. Gendry wiped his hands on the little towel on his shoulder before he turned to her with a rehearsed and servile smile.

“Miss Stark! What can I do for you today?”

Sansa locked eyes with him for a long moment, waiting for his resolve to crack and the pretense to fall, but it never did. _So, it’s going to be like this_. Generally, her patience felt bottomless, her stamina for social puzzles boundless. But now, now she just wanted to yell Sandor’s name and conjure him from wherever he was hiding. But that would not do, the door could open at any moment, and the longer Sansa spent inside the store, the more speculating the girls across the street would be doing. She took a deep breath, slipping into the role she had been conditioned to play, and gave Gendry her own kind of professional smile.

“I had a question for Sandor,” Sansa said carefully, hiding her preoccupation with a winning smile. Gendry frowned, his eyes dropping to his hands, looking as though he suddenly forgot every word he ever learned. He chanced a nervous glance over his shoulder in the direction of Sandor’s office, drawing Sansa’s eyes to nothing but the scene of hanging weight and next week’s roasts. When he looked back to her, Gendry softened the frown a bit, gifting her a sympathetic smile that ripped straight through her, dipping his tone as he spoke low.

“He stormed out earlier and didn’t say to where. Been a shit day around here, if you don’t mind me saying.” And that was all he offered. In an instant, the honesty vanished and he revived the smile on his lips, steering their conversation into easy waters. “Are we roasting or grilling this weekend?”

“Gods, Gendry,” Sansa rolled her eyes in exasperation, letting out a huff as her heel stomped down on the tile floor with loud snap. “Just wrap something up for me to take outside so The Jeyne’s won’t think I came in just to _socialize_.” If she were a smarter woman, she wouldn’t have gone there in the first place. After seeing The Jeyne’s, she should have just made for Tyrion’s for a bottle of gin, and then gone home.

“They’re still out there?” Sansa’s eyes flared and Gendry’s face reddened as he dropped his head to comply, fishing out a heap of ground chuck and bundling it neatly before passing it over the counter. Sansa put a dollar in his hand, flashing him a smile that probably looked more like a snarl before she stomped out the door. Her face was slipping and she felt the prick of her mother’s touch between her brows again. The Jeyne’s looked up as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. Sansa stalked straight toward them, the safety of her car the goal in between. She held her head high and her shoulders back as she maneuvered the Edsel away from prying eyes, the city shriveling into nothing in her rearview mirror.

Her hands were shaking by the time she turned off Main Street, fully quaking by River Road, and her vision blurring as the long stretch of fallow cornfields walled her in on the claustrophobic country pass just before the turn to the farm. There was no rust red truck waiting in the drive when she pulled up, her hands falling slack onto the red leather seats as she loosed her grip on the world and on herself. Numbness coursed through her veins, giving a weight to her form that generally floated through the world unfettered. She felt as though she’d die that very moment, the scene through the windshield darkening as her heart raced in her chest. It was just as the bruised sunset sky turned a vivid purple and the dying light seemed almost too bright that Sansa found herself moving mechanically toward the house. Alone.

Sansa tore the kitchen apart, scrounging up an ancient-looking bottle of Schnapps and a few swigs of cooking sherry. The drinks were astringent and everything Sansa disliked about alcohol, but she downed them anyway. It offered only a fleeting moment of comfortable detachment before she was back in her own skin, itching again. There was no mystery left for her in his house, only the same clawing loneliness she had always known with Harry. She pulled herself into a chair at the table, resting her leaden forearms on the surface as she strained to hear passing traffic on the road. She imagined she was a different woman; a wife listening for her husband to come home.

She had been that woman once before, hadn’t she? How many nights in those first few months of marriage had Sansa dutifully waited for Harry while their dinner grew cold and the next glass of gin called to her? Burrowing her feelings came easily to Sansa, her mother had taught her most prodigious student well how to manage disappointment and recalibrate expectations.

Well, that had gotten her fantastically nowhere by the age of five and twenty.

She waited for Sandor at the table long enough to bruise her pride, the soft hues of dusk outside the window giving way to moonlight, before she finally gave up. She trailed up the stairs slowly, her steps heavy with defeat. She peeled herself out of the navy dress she had carefully selected that morning, kicking her heels off into darkness of the closet. Sansa tugged his worn, green sweater over her head and fished behind her pillow for her neatly folded stack of letters. The content she knew by heart, but the feel of them had become different, her fingers running over the grooves of his words as she thought of the hands that committed them. Her mind drifted to the little red dinghy bobbing in the North Sea that he had been able to see from the small window of his recovery room. She imagined Agnes, the stout woman he had rented a room from in Inverness who made his favorite little kidney pies. And she thought about the man who should have been allowed to be a boy, the man who had penned them so long ago. 

She heard his heavy steps on the stairs well into the night, sleep never fully in her grasp, and she found herself holding her breath as he drew closer to her. Sansa felt his fingertips graze her shoulder as he pulled the quilt tighter around her and her eyes rolled closed at his touch. She heard the letters rustle to the floor, sounding like the shuffle of dry leaves. She rolled over as he bent low to retrieve the fallen pages, his broad back covered in shadow cast leaves from the open window. Sandor sat on the edge of the bed and Sansa succumbed to the pull of his body as the mattress dipped. The anger and hurt she had felt earlier in the evening gave way to an ache inside her she had carried since she was a girl. Her longing for his touch overwhelmed her as she watched him scan the letters in the near darkness, her hand reaching to take hold of his arm.

As if remembering she was there, Sandor turned to her in the pale moonlight, whispering her name as he lay down beside her. His hands were in her hair, his letters still clutched in one hand, the soft parchment brushing her cheek. She could smell the night air on his skin and in his clothes, laced with the faint scent of liquor, and she wondered how long he had been outside before coming to her bed. She wanted to cry, to yell at him for not being there when she needed him, wanted to tell him she needed him. She needed everything he could give her, she needed him to help her find herself again.

“Sandor…” His name fell from her lips like a plea as she leaned into his chest, his arms wrapping around her instinctively. Her tiny nails scratched his chest as her fingers raked through the spaces between the buttons of his shirt. She felt the heavy rise and fall of his chest against her and it was as though the same breath traveled through her, warm and pooling in the pit of her stomach. She felt as if he covered every inch of her like a dense fog. Every breath he took brought her closer to him like a wave beckoned to the shore. Sansa thought she was dreaming when her lips brushed against his neck, a breathy moan escaping him. She pulled back then, suddenly aware of her actions. “I-I didn’t…I don’t know…what I’m doing.”

“What do you want to do?” It wasn’t as though she were a virgin, but this was all very new to her. She had only ever been with Harry, her inexperience both thrilling and terrifying. She wanted to climb into Sandor’s lap and push her mouth against his. She wanted to let his hands explore the curve of her spine the way she often felt his eyes do as she pulled weeds in the garden. She wanted him to run his fingertips over the supple hills of her calves and trace the backs of her thighs as he swallowed her gasps of pleasure. She wanted him to kiss her until she was dizzy and raw from his attention. She wanted him.

For a brief moment, she feared he didn’t want the same.

A _brief_ moment. In the next, his hands were drifting over her legs, her mouth parting only slightly before he descended upon her. He rolled her atop him, rising to lean against the headboard. Sansa wasn’t sure if she had ever felt this bold, kneeling over a man’s lap indecently, her hands popping the buttons of his collared shirt open.

 _Gods, but he looks handsome in that dove grey linen shirt_.

His dark hair was soft and unstyled, looking every bit the boy she had once allowed herself to love on the pages of their clandestine letters. The olive-green trousers he favored were soft with wear, the feel of them cool against her bare legs. When his massive hand tentatively palmed her hip, she felt herself pressing against him instinctively and he nearly growled into her open mouth as he drew her into his kiss once again.

“Sandor,” she whispered, pulling back from him to catch her breath. His stormy grey eyes were almost black and wide with desire as he looked at her in earnest. Her hands were pushing at his opened shirt, easing her sweeping palms over the peaks of his shoulders, turning her nails to drag gently against his back. Sansa wanted him, burned every time his eyes fell upon her, desperate to know if his skin tasted as good as it looked. But there was Harry in the back of her mind, mocking her. _You’re a bore in the sack, Red_.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been good at this,” she admitted finally, quietly.

Sandor laughed, not _at_ her, as he shook his head and kissed her deeply. His hands were hot against the cool night as he let them drift against the soft skin stretched over her ribs under his heavy sweater. “Might be no one’s ever taken their time with you, little bird.” She felt the smile on his lips as he pressed his mouth against the gentle arc of her neck. Sansa shivered as the soft scruff covering his strong jawline chafed pleasantly against her.

“Might be,” she whispered. He smiled against her skin again, his hands rolling the sweater over her head with a crinkle of static as he freed her wild hair. Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy, every bit of her alight with desire as he bared her to his touch. Her pulse drumming maddeningly in her ears, Sansa found it near impossible to do more than roll her head back and let out the stream of inborn moans that climbed her throat at the feel of his mouth against her. With each sound that escaped her, he rewarded her with another nip of his teeth, his tongue soothing the rosy marks he left behind. Sansa blushed as the extent of her exposure dawned on her when he tilted his head back to look at her. His eyes locked on hers, his hands bracing her ribs, his thumbs outlining the soft underside of her breasts.

 “You want this?” His voice was a mere rasp, husky with the lust evident in his eyes. Sansa nodded shyly, dragging her teeth against her bottom lip as she smoothed over the planes of his chest. “With me, I mean. And not just to get back at Harry.” Sansa stilled her hands and gave him a scolding look. After how close they had grown living together and their current state of undress, she found it hard to believe he could doubt her now. She wanted more, but telling him was more frightening than showing him.

Lifting onto her knees, Sansa fixed his gaze, feeling every inch of him through his smallclothes. The way his mouth burned against her skin gave Sansa a strange surge of empowerment. Harry had always been far too busy taking care of his own needs that she often felt like little more than a warmer hand for him to fuck himself into. Lowering herself back into his lap, his warm palms tentatively enveloping her breasts, she emitted a gasp as the ache between her legs brushed against the hardness between his.

When his hands palmed her behind, long fingers twining in the band of her smallclothes, she knew she was lost. In the work of a moment, he had her exactly how he wanted; naked and prone beneath his hungry gaze. Inexperience should have made her nervous, but as his thumbs tread the delicate skin of her inner thighs, she welcomed the woman who awoke inside of her. A stranger in her skin, she bucked her hips toward his touch, willing him to sink inside her. “Gods, little bird,” he rumbled into her hair as he clutched her to him. “Tell me what you want, Sansa.”

“Everything.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Toodleoo, most of all, for her invaluable feedback and suggestions. I seriously wouldn't be able to get my head out of my ass if it wasn't for your reads.
> 
> Y'all might not see an update until the end of next week, so enjoy a nice long one!

Sansa’s beauty bordered on feral as she pulled him to her, kneeling naked over him in the moonlight. He was already half-mad from the way she was writhing against him, but the warm feel of her mouth coupled with the soft friction of his smallclothes between them was enough to make his eyes roll closed. The smile he saw on her face when he opened his eyes again was different than any he’d ever seen on her. He watched her confidence mounting as she bent him to her will with every roll of her hips, every bite of her lip, every little breathy moan. If he didn’t know better, Sandor would say Sansa Stark looked smug.

_She’s like ninety-nine pounds of dynamite…_

Sandor ran the backs of his hands along the delicate skin of her inner thighs, his index finger tentatively reaching to brush the length of her wetness, a low moan contorting the smile on her lips as the power between them shifted to his favor. Her slender hands were suddenly like vices around his shoulders as Sansa bucked eagerly against his hand. Now he was sure it was he who looked smug, sliding an open palm up the taut and pebbled plane of her abdomen while the fingers of his other hand slid inside her. Sansa let out a whimper at his touch, turning into the hand that had reached her face. For a moment she was everywhere, and he was losing himself inside of her as she gripped his fingers tighter, chasing her pleasure.

He dragged his thumb over the nape of her neck, holding her firmly as he withdrew his fingers from her, palming himself with her arousal. Her eyes slid over him, watching as he touched himself, her bare breasts heaving with anticipation. He searched her face for hesitation, half expecting to see some of the fear or disgust as he had seen in other women, but Sansa met him with a smoldering gaze that left him feeling dizzy and desired.

“I want you, Sandor,” she breathed against his mouth, her tongue licking his lips apart as he sank himself inside her. Her eyes widened at the intrusion, her perfect white teeth bruising his bottom lip as he pulled her down on himself slowly. He didn’t want to rush, his fantasy suddenly made flesh, but she was desperate and clawing at him as she slid fervently over his length. He knew he couldn’t last, too out of practice to have her properly, thrusting too damned frantically as he struggled to meet her demanding pace. But it had been the way she trapped his wandering thumb in the wet heat of her mouth as she rolled her hips against him that dragged him under a dark wave of desire with her. He came as she clung to him, digging her little nails into his shoulders, moaning his name as she shattered apart.

They kissed languidly after, drifting in and out of slumber as the night wore on, mindlessly reaching for each other in the darkness. But when morning came, grey and biting with an unyielding chill, Sandor found himself alone in her bed, the muscle of his leg throbbing as he assessed the empty space beside him. Feeling bereft and suddenly uneasy by her absence, Sandor began to worry he had simply imagined everything that had transpired between them. But the heat of her skin against his and her scent still clinging to him was all too real and too near to have been nothing. 

After pulling on yesterday’s clothes, not bothering to button his shirt or properly lace his boots, Sandor made his way into the kitchen. As was often his ritual on these cold mornings, he stopped by the cabinet nearest the sink to dissolve a bit of aspirin in a glass of water, looking out into the pasture beyond his driveway as he ran his thumb down the puckered old wound distractedly.

He noticed that the goats were out and for a moment he feared a breach in the pen, but then he spied a telling flash of copper streaking through the scene as Sansa pushed a shit-filled wheelbarrow to the little heap of manure by the road. 

 

"Fuck me," he muttered, downing the whole of the bitter liquid, pain still radiating through his step. He hobbled out into the yard, his leg stiff and not quite ready to meet the day with him. It was hardly how he imagined the morning going, suddenly feeling a fool for thinking sleeping with her had somehow changed things between them, as Sansa moved with a severe determination. She focused her gaze on anything but him as she turned back from the road, ignoring his pleading glance. When she moved past him with hardly a look, he called after her. "Sansa, what are you doing?"

 

"Mucking stalls," she offered into the wind, her tone icy. This Sansa, dressed in navy trousers and a red chambray shirt, seemed such a departure from the warm little creature that moaned his name as she shuddered against him. She was stumbling awkwardly in little leather boots she wore, the heels catching on every stone and stick, merely stoking her ire. They were likely the best she had to work in as the morning was turning a bit muddy, but he made a note to get her some proper boots. Well, if he managed to survive this morning, that is. “Isn’t that what it looks like?”

 

“You could have woken me or waited until I got up. They’ve waited longer,” Sandor said, trying to keep his tone light and easy, despite the horrible sinking feeling he carried in his chest at the change in her demeanor.  He wondered sadly how they got so far from the heat they shared simple hours before, mourning something that had hardly begun. He made to retrieve the pitchfork from her hands, but Sansa drew back quickly from his reach with a scowl. "Give me the damned thing, Sansa."

 

“Sandor, I’m fine,” she sighed, her eyes dark and weary. Her tone suggested he could fuck off if he pleased, but Sandor knew that he would win himself no favor with her by merely giving up and letting her stew.

“I didn’t say you weren’t fine,” he replied, gesturing around them at the little flock bleating and clucking around his enclosures. “I didn’t say you couldn’t do all this. I just don’t want you out here shoveling shit when I think you should be in bed with me.”

“Is that it, then?” The anger in her tone suggested she was suddenly immune to his flirting, the color high on her cheeks denoting ire rather than her typical modesty. Sansa shoved the pitchfork toward him, the wooden handle landing just beside his foot with a dull thud, giving him barely enough time to react. “I’m just supposed to do what you want when you say?”

“Gods, Sansa that’s not what I meant, and you know it,” he replied with a frown, his arms crossing against his chest defensively. She was meeting his gaze now, harsh and severe as she postured at him, itching for a fight. A part of him was proud of the way she stood up to him, showing her teeth as they carved out their roles for one another. But a different part of him was growing tired of being her punching bag, especially now that he knew what it was to have or possibly lose, her. He wondered bitterly if there would ever come a morning that he wouldn’t have to worry he’d do something to remind her of Harry. “Forgive me for wishing you had stayed in bed with me after last night.”

“Forgive me if I couldn’t sleep and the thought of staring at the wall waiting for you again made my skin itch, after last night,” Sansa bit back, her jaw set as she turned her back to him, stalking her way into the barn.

“Having regrets then, little bird?” His voice stopped her in her tracks, the muscles in her back drawing together as she stiffened. Disappointment was a familiar taste in his mouth and Sandor found himself vulnerable and wounded by her silence as he closed the distance between them. But soon her answer seemed just dangerous as silence and he wished himself back to the playful banter they shared over breakfast the morning before. He felt the strange and unfamiliar prick of tears in his eyes as she froze him out.

“I used to wait for Harry to come home all the time,” Sansa offered with a wry laugh, speaking into her shoulder as she embraced herself against the breeze. When she turned, she was looking past him, her stormy eyes fixed on some indeterminate point. Her hair was messier than she normally wore it, tucked hastily into a bun at the base of her neck. When she looked to speak again, her eyes locked on his with a searing intensity. “Should I just get used to waiting for you as well?”

_Angry_. Of all things he envisioned in the wake of the night they spent together, Sandor hadn’t expected her to be angry. He expected shy smiles and stolen kisses while they idled the day away. Hells, he would have even understood if she felt _guilty_ , her marriage hardly cold before she gave herself to him.  But he realized he had been an ass before she let him in her bed, had avoided her all night, stumbling into her room like a drunken fool.  Now, she was comparing him to her husband and he found himself with little in the way of defense as she cast her wounded gaze upon him. 

“I’m sorry I stayed away last night, but after everything that happened with Harry and those girls at the shop, I just needed to clear my head.” He reached out to take her by the elbow, but she pulled out of his range, turning her attention to refilling the water bowls as she stomped around the barn. Her cheeks were flushed with exertion and anger, her indignant huffs hanging foggy in the air. He didn’t know what to say to diffuse her anger but if she wanted him to fight for her, he would.

“Where did you go last night?” She demanded, busying herself with some invisible tasks around the barn, moving inconsequential pieces around to avoid standing still. To avoid letting _him_ keep her still.

He recounted his hazy evening to her, beginning with the little flask of bourbon he kept in his office _just in case._ He told her how he had found himself driving to the river overlook, how he had thought to drink himself stupid after the shitshow of a morning he’d had with Hardyng. But, he admitted with some embarrassment, he passed out long before he could have finished the bottle, waking to the sound of a patrolman rattling the window of his truck with the butt of a flashlight. It had been enough to scare him shitless, nearly sober. Sandor told her how he drove home, the window rolled down as the crisp night air slapped against his face. He told her how he had splashed himself with icy water in the kitchen sink before trailing upstairs, expecting to fall face first into his bed to sleep off the drink like he had so many times before _. But your door had been open_ , he confessed and explained how he found her tangled up in his sweater, his letters pressed against her chest.

“I’m a fool for you, Sansa. An old, drunken fool no good for the likes of you,” he added when she remained silent at his confession, his voice soft and revealing as he watched her balling her little fists at her side. He wished she would let him hold her. He needed to feel the weight of her against his body again. “I’ve worked my whole life to keep everyone within arm’s reach, Sansa. I’ve worked so damned hard not to let myself feel anything.”

“And after last night,” she began as she arched a brow at him, a severe edge to her tone, “do you feel nothing?” She slammed down the enameled water bowl in front of Lady, the old girl’s face furrowed in displeasure at the row unfolding in her typically peaceful little space in the barn.

“Being with you last night was everything to me, Sansa.” The words left him as if involuntary, softening the hardened lines of her aspect as a look akin to relief passed over her. “But you have to give me a chance to figure all this out. Gods know I’m like to muck all this up and it scares the shit out of me.”

“We’re doing everything wrong, you and I,” she said, shaking her head despairingly. “Gods, what would my mother think of all this?”

“She’d kill me with her bare hands and then march you back to Harry herself.” Sandor retorted dryly and perhaps too quickly to her rhetorical musing. He had meant it as a jape, but he wished it back as soon as he saw the way her face fell.

“How many women do you suppose Harry has had since I married him?”

“Don’t ask me that, Sansa,” Sandor implored, shaking his head as his gaze fell to the floor. He couldn’t think of anyone he wanted to talk about less. Not that he had an exact answer to her question, but he knew enough to wound her further as he could think of at least a handful of women from their town connected to Harry. Including one woman whom Sandor knew to be married. A woman who went on to have a little girl with sandy hair and pale blue eyes, a departure from the dark countenance said woman shared with her husband.

“Don’t I have a right to know?” Sansa asked, looking wounded by his reluctance as if his silence were its own form of complicit betrayal. “Everyone wants to pin a scarlet ‘A’ on _my_ chest for how badly _I’m_ treating Harry. I wonder how many letters he’s earned.”

_A for arrogant…_

“I heard all about Harry, about all the girls, and it took no small amount of restraint not to hit him long before yesterday when he barged into my store to insult us. And in front of those _women_ …” Sandor groaned, remembering the two little hens clucking in their ridiculous derby hats.

_A for asshole…_

“Oh, I did my own damage with The Jeynes,” Sansa replied bitterly, wiping away a tear that had escaped her eye with the back of her hand. “I’m fairly certain that I shouted that my husband was fucking everyone but me lout enough for all of Main Street to hear.” He had never been so relieved as when a smile came back to her stormy eyes and she turned to him with a playful smirk. “Though we’ve now proven every bit of gossip about us around town, you know. Give or take a few months.”

_A for ancient history_ …

Sandor crossed the floor to her quickly, backing her up against the wall of hay in the unused stall behind her. Sansa’s eyes went wide as he pinned her shoulders back gently, forcing her to meet his eyes. He let his thumbs trail over the hollow of her throat, relishing the sight of her so close to him. Her emotions were raw and exposed in her eyes, and he finally saw her anger for what it was; as familiar and warm as his own rage, his own defense.

“Does he really matter anymore, Sansa? Seems to me the damage has been done.” He curled his arm around her waist, keeping her within the reach of his mouth as he leaned down to taste the salt-sweet skin of her neck. “If things would be that much easier, you could go back to Harry. Is that what you want?”

“Don’t ask a question when you already know the answer. You aren’t stupid,” Sansa replied archly, splitting his own words back at him, mocking his gruffness. He growled with false offense, nipping at her soft lips gently. “And I know you aren’t Harry,” she added softly, her head burrowing into his shoulder as she considered him. “But I can’t have you disappearing all the time.”

Sandor nodded his acquiescence, grateful to have his arms about her again, letting her unburden her heavy mind. Had he come home to her the evening before, skipping his little drunken nap at the river, perhaps she would have woken with a lighter heart.

“I thought Harry did everything right,” she volunteered softly after a moment, gifting him his first smile of the morning, however drawn it was. Running the smooth backs of her fingers over his bare chest, she leaned into the arm encircling her, speaking into his shoulder. “He was everything my mother wanted for me and I just put all my trust in him. And in the beginning, I just thought it was a phase. I thought all men just needed to be tamed. As the hours would tick by, me sitting at the little kitchen table, I began to feel more and more ashamed.” Sandor watched as a tear slipped silently down her cheek, his finger rising to swipe the rogue drop from her jaw mechanically. “I was ashamed that no one knew me as intimately as Harry knew whoever he shared his nights with.”

Sandor realized he hadn’t been fair to her, taking her anger personally, the only way she knew how to deal with her insecurities. A coping mechanism he should have recognized from the start. He vowed to himself that he would do his best to see her through her moments of doubt and hoped that he could be a good enough man to prove to her that he was not like Harry. And perhaps in his rush to possess her and vanquish his own insecurities, he hadn’t truly taken his time on her. Not the way he promised.

“Did you ever feel ashamed because you were thinking of someone else while your husband was away?” Sandor asked, hoisting her up on a bale of hay that put her eye level with him, nosing the nape of her neck as he set her down. He let his hands drift up the long length of her legs, from ankle to thigh, raking his nails over the soft flesh of her lower belly as he passed beneath the fabric of her blouse. Sandor decided he liked the way her shoulders rolled back at his touch, the way her cheeks flushed as deep as the red of her parted lips. “Did you ever think of me, little bird?”

Her reply, a faint and nearly inaudible _yes,_ vibrated against his lips as he kissed the hollow of her throat. ”I thought about you all the time, ” she whispered as if it were a revelation unto herself as well. That simple confession earned her a deep kiss on the mouth as his fingers kneaded her stomach beneath the soft, red shirt. His thumbs dipped below the waist of her pants, tracing the ridges of her hips and she moaned low in her throat.

“I was so afraid to look at you when you would come into the shop, afraid you’d see everything I thought plain on my face the second you saw me,” he breathed into her ear, stands of her hair brushing against his lips as he spoke. Her delicate fingers fumbled with the little white buttons that kept her hidden from him, her breasts heaving with each labored breath she took. Sandor pushed her hands away as she struggled with the stubborn fasteners, giving the neat little row of closures a gentle tug. The sound of the buttons snapping free was a strange delight that instantly made him hard. Sansa panted, suddenly bared to him, not a stitch covering her under the thin, red checked shirt.

“What did you think about when you thought of me?” Sansa asked drowsily, her tone husky and full of wanting. She rose slightly, shrugging the battered shirt down her slender arms drawing his eyes over her bare skin as her fingers ghosted over her sternum. Sandor leaned himself into her, tugging her lips between his as he gently pulled her hair loose from the long pins keeping it in place. Sansa came alive beneath his touch as the rain pelted the ground outside the open door, a faint spatter carried on the wind that carried her breathy moans through the wide space. Sansa shook as a shiver took hold of her and Sandor let his broad palms drag slowly over the ridges of her collarbone and into her hair.

“I thought about that fiery mane of yours I can see coming a mile away,” he rasped into her ear, giving her tresses a firm tug as they ran through his fingers. She tilted her head back, her eyes soft and wide as she shucked the dark trousers from her legs. “I thought about those peach perfect lips and the way you always leveled me with your smile.” The roughened pad of his thumb dragged her lips apart, wetted by the flick of her little pink tongue as she tasted him the way she had the night before. Slick with her kiss, Sandor dragged the digit against the soft and seemingly untouched skin that lined the inner fold of her milky, freckled thigh. _Like strawberries and cream_ , he mused, in awe of her natural beauty bared before him in the grey light. He claimed her mouth in a fierce kiss as he let his fingers drift beneath the soft silk of her smallclothes to stoke the fire burning in her core. He felt her chasing his touch, moaning into his mouth, pleading for _more_. Wild and passionate and far too beautiful to be tame. Sandor felt his pulse thrumming in his ears, the manifestation of his soul’s desire before him. “But I thought about you as you are right now the most. Gods, but I didn’t do you justice last night, Sansa.”

“Show me,” she begged as she arched her breasts against him, her hands clutching desperately to him as he slid the last barrier between them down her legs. “You have me now, so show me.”

Sandor grinned impishly into her mouth, kissing her soundly one last time before he freed his hold on her hair, kissing his way over the soft weight of her breasts, her peaks pebbled and drawn beneath the warm slip of his tongue. Her skin was incandescent and pink, scrubbed by the coarse stubble of his cheek as he consumed every inch of her bare skin. He thought she might protest, what he was about to do to her very bold and very improper. Not that her propriety would have stopped him. He was too far gone when her hips tilted up to him, egged on by the way her breath caught in her throat with a strangled little cry as he pushed his tongue into her heat, no honey as sweet as the desire burning for him between her legs.

Before long, Sansa was fisting the hay at her sides, finally yielding to her pleas for him. He wrapped her slender legs around his waist, the dig of her heels in his lower back all the invitation he needed to bury himself inside her. She was glowing with a fine sheen of sweat, her hair a tousled mane of matted copper about her head as he dragged her over the edge with him, swallowing the song from her lips.

He felt her shaking from laughter before the roaring of lust in his ears subsided enough for him to hear the sweet, lilting sound of her voice. Sandor collapsed beside her, satisfied at the sight of her flushed and quivering at his gentle, reverent touch. The dull ache of their argument was a small price for the easy laughter that bubbled out of her now as she rolled into him lazily, pressing kisses anywhere her lips could reach. Her effervescence was infectious, and he found himself laughing with her as he let her braid their limbs together, kissing her giggles away.

“Still think we’re doing everything all wrong, little bird?” He asked after a while, not quite teasing, needing his own form of validation from her. His fingers worked gently through her tangled curls, drinking in the look of contentment softening her delicate features. Sansa was mapping his face with her fingers, reverently marking his features with soft kisses. He nipped at her fingers as she looked him over, her exuberance transforming into a genuine expression of happiness that made his heart clench. There was so much more to lose now, he thought as she shook her head in answer to his question, her hands framing his face.

“I don’t think I believe in all that anymore.” She was searching him for something, her brow furrowed in concern or concentration, he couldn’t tell. She turned her face slightly to him, her hand between them drifting to absently twine her fingers in the soft hair of his chest. “I just wish it hadn’t taken us so long to get here.”

“Shit, Sansa, I hadn’t really let myself think we ever would.” Sandor let out a deep chuckle, dragging his hands across his face. “I certainly didn’t think I’d get to punch your idiot husband _and_ bed you. I was very certain I’d have to choose. Some lucky bastard I am.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, giving him a playful push, firmly back in her good graces. They kissed lazily as the rain fell against the tin roof of the barn in fat, cold drops. He held her close for a long while after that, neither of them found they had much to say until the barn grew cold and the hay beneath them made their bare skin itch. He felt palpable disappointment as he watched her rise and retrieve her trousers, stitching her propriety back together, one article of clothing after another. She pulled on the red shirt, seeking around the straw-littered floor to find the buttons he had scattered in his haste. He let out a low chuckle at the sight, a fond memory he’d forever link to the little red shirt if she managed to fix the damage he’d done.

“And what are you laughing at?” She cocked a brow at him, the way she was crawling about the floor giving him a perfect view of her breasts as she sifted a hand through a little pile of hay near where they had been standing, frowning slightly when her hand came up empty. “You’re the one who destroyed my shirt, seems you should be down here helping me.”

“And ruin the view?” He winked at her as he rose from their makeshift bed, stepping into his trousers. She huffed in the scandalized way she often did when his teasing singed her modesty. Even now, with everything they’d shared, he was pleased to find she still had cause to blush so prettily for him. He dropped a hand to help her to her feet, pulling her toward him with a gentle tug. He fingered the edges of her ruined blouse, the sliver of exposed skin calling for his kiss. He was resisting the impulse to strip her bare and have her again when his stomach rumbled emptily, and she laughed.

“Come on, you’re fit to starve if we don’t get a meal in you soon,” Sansa said playfully, pulling him by the hand toward the house, assaulted by the rain now falling heavily upon the earth.

 

Sansa went to the kitchen to forage for something to call dinner after they washed up. She had pulled on a simple green dress, the cut and cling of the fabric leaving little his now well-researched imagination. She had switched the little black and white radio he kept on the counter, playing a slow song that immediately transported him to the smoke-filled USO dancehalls from before he had been deployed. Sansa swayed hips to _Moonlight Serenade_ as she assembled a formidable pastrami and swiss on thick marbled rye, smiling to herself as she hummed along.

_You have me now, show me._

She didn’t seem to hear as he approached her, falling into her orbit as he wrapped his arms around her waist, tucking her head under his chin. He couldn’t remember anything tasting as good as the bits of proffered sandwich she fed him over her shoulder, giggling as he bit her fingers teasingly. It was a simple moment, the kind that would inevitably invade his mind in years to come. The kind of moment that made him love her even more. She covered his hands with hers and leaned against his chest as they rocked to the bittersweet horns crackling through the speaker.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell you all enough how amazing you are and how much I love all of your feedback. Thank you so much for reading and commenting on my little fic. I hope y'all enjoy!

Kevan Lannister’s office hadn’t changed in the years since Sansa last paid the man a visit. She found herself shifting her weight in the same heavy and uncomfortable chair, the worn crimson vinyl creaking beneath her every move. None of the pictures on his desk had changed, his wife and children seemingly ageless and impervious to the flow of time. Everything smelled a bit musty and looked as though it were long overdue for a good dusting, the books on the shelves behind him seeming more like decoration than a resource. As far as Sansa could tell, the only discernable change to the little law office on the tree-lined end of Front Street could be measured by the recession of the portly man’s hair. To Sansa, he was still just the detached and arrogant man who had settled the estates of her brother and mother.

Kevan Lannister was the only lawyer in Cold Spring.

The man was also completely and tirelessly verbose. Sansa tried to pay attention to the nuanced and draconian divorce laws he was spelling out, but it was all just jargon to her. _Legalese_. With what little she truly knew on the subject, Sansa thought her separation would be simple and painless, the perfect inverse to how stressful she had found planning a wedding. In her mind, Kevan would simply draft a paper stating that Harry had strayed and that Sansa wanted out and it would be done.

“But there are assets,” he explained, his hairy hands reaching across the desk toward her as he gesticulated. “As an unemployed woman, I assume you’ll want to seek alimony.”

“No,” Sansa stated firmly. “I have my own money, don’t I?” Kevan made a _so-so_ gesture with his hand, shuffling through a folder until he found the document he sought. He turned it to her, pointing to a row of numbers halfway down the page. “What am I looking at?”

“This is what your inheritance pays out annually,” Kevan explained, tapping the figure with his pen. “Now, I don’t presume to know Harry’s salary, but I’d be willing to put it at around twenty-five to thirty thousand dollars. Your trust only pays out about four.”

“Well, then I’ll learn to live with less,” Sansa retorted, and Kevan scoffed at that, shaking his head as he refiled the document. “I can do that, you know.”

“Sure, Sansa, even if you could amend your lifestyle, learn to live without all… _this_ ,” he said gesturing at her outfit which was, she hated to admit, quite expensive. “Four thousand dollars a year is hardly enough to get a home of your own here in town, not like you’re used to now. But, if you want to go after the house—“

“I still have Winterfell,” Sansa interrupted. She hadn’t been back to the Stark estate since before college, but owning it gave her a sense of financial security that transcended her trust fund. “I can always fall back on that.”

“You have _half_ of Winterfell,” Kevan corrected, lacing his fingers in front of him as he looked down his nose at her. “Even if your sister has run away with a bunch of degenerates, legally, both of your names are on the deed.”

_Arya_. Sansa felt a pang of guilt at the continent that lay between her and her only sister. She chewed on her lip a little harder than she had meant, wondering where her wild little Arya was now and if she would be proud of her older sister. Arya and Harry had never been on friendly terms and Arya had boycotted Sansa’s wedding because of it. Harry always expressed his disdain for the way Sansa’s sister carried on and discouraged her from keeping in touch when Arya packed up across the country. Now, after of years of silence, Sansa wondered if she would ever have a relationship with her sister again.

_Is there anything Harry hasn’t ruined?_

“All I want is the Edsel. Hells, I’ll even pay him for it,” Sansa said as politely as she could manage, though she felt her anger still swelling. “Aren’t I giving him what he wants? An easy out so he can go off and sleep with whomever he pleases.”

“It’s just not that simple, Sansa, you need him to consent to the divorce,” Kevan explained, shaking his head with a condescending laugh. “Infidelity may be one of the few acceptable grounds for divorce in the state, but it is no small feat to prove it.” Kevan paused for a second, looking as though he needed to distill his next statement into words Sansa could understand before he continued. “You see, adultery is quite _subjective_ in my experience.”

Sansa wanted to scream, but she did her best to keep a bright and unaffected face in front of the man she hired to counsel her through her greatest personal challenge. It seemed to her that Harry’s guilt in the matter was quite _objective_. She regretted leaving Randa’s tell-tale note behind, wondering if people would look at her as disdainfully as Kevan was if they could see the proof themselves.

“What is there to prove? He has a mistress! Myranda Royce was practically _fondling_ him under _my_ dining room table,” Sansa said, not bothering to mask her annoyance this time., “in the house I’m not even trying to fight him over.” Sansa heard her own voice, unladylike and far too loud, and she took a deep breath before continuing. “I just want this over with so I can move on.”

“I feel now may be the appropriate time to advise that you be quite careful about your future circumstances, Sansa,” Kevan smirked meaningfully at her, his brow cocked in silent amusement as he shuffled the papers before him into some discernable order. “You see, you have no family here in Cold Spring and yet you remain. Where a girl like you lands when she leaves her husband is a mystery ripe for speculation, and accusation. Harry could just as easily levy the same claims against you.”

Sansa’s stomach fell at his implication and she sensed word of Sandor’s fight with Harry had indeed made the rounds in town. She didn’t care that she had slept with Sandor before she was divorced-Harry didn’t deserve her empathy for that sin. She cared that she may have been thoughtless in all of this, going blindly where a voice too long stifled had led her, and jeopardized a swift and clean break. Sandor deserved better than that. Sansa felt her brow tightening, her hands balling in the navy skirt about her waist. She felt the all too familiar prick of tears in her eyes and battled them back, desperate not to cry in front of the man already judging her.

“Should Harry not agree to dissolve your marriage, there _is_ one option left for you to pursue,” Kevan said after a long silence, pulling Sansa out of the depths of her thoughts.

 “Oh?”

“Yes, well, many women in your _situation_ take up residence in Reno for six weeks and have the thing done there. Quicker and less frustrating, legally speaking.” He reclined back in the chair, the springs squeaking with his considerable weight. He was looking at her as though he wondered what she tasted like, his eyes roaming where they like with little concern for the discomfort she knew to be plain on her face. Kevan Lannister seemed like the type of man who would pinch a girl’s behind just as soon as her husband or his wife was out of sight. _A paragon of fidelity, I’m sure._ “Women who are eager to get started again.”

Sansa ignored the suggestion behind his words, stuck instead on considering the city that could free her. Reno. _Nevada_. The thought of moving three thousand miles away from everything she knew caused her no small amount of anxiety and she immediately began comforting herself with all the ways being permanently estranged from her husband wouldn’t be so bad. But Sansa knew that being inexorably tied to Harry, all while living in the same town as he and his paramour, would do nothing but stifle the life she wanted to build for herself. Perhaps a trip to Reno, no matter how undesirable, was a small price to pay to be happy.

 “And these women in my _situation_ , what is it they do in Reno for six weeks?” Sansa asked, a saccharine smile lending false sweetness to her tone.

“Well, lucky for you, things have changed quite a bit in the past decade or so. There’s more of an industry around divorce there now. You should have no trouble finding a boarding house or an apartment of some kind.” Kevan said, his eyes undressing her again, lingering on the pale expanse of her bare legs tapping involuntarily on the carpeted floor. Sansa stopped fidgeting immediately, desperate to be out from under his intimidating gaze. “And with legs like that, doll, you could make a mint as a cocktail waitress in a casino.” Lannister let out a low whistle as he gave her a final once-over, turning his attention back to the pile of paperwork on his desk that would later be served to Harry.

_What would Sandor think of him looking at me like this_? That seemed easy enough to answer, given what Sandor had done to her husband. The thought brought a small smile to her lips as she imagined Kevan’s roving eyes swollen and black. Sansa found herself feeling slightly more confident thinking of the man out there willing to protect her. The thought being loved as completely as she felt Sandor was capable of excited her and she knew she would do anything to let him. Sandor wouldn’t want to live in the shadow of her former life and she wouldn’t make him. _When all of this is over_ , she had said to herself as she mused over their unspoken future during meals and evenings they had spent kissing on his plush, Dunbar sofa. _When all of this is over_. Six weeks in Reno wasn’t so long. After all, they had spent most of their lives apart.

 “Let’s give him some time to let all of this soak in and see what he comes back with before you go making any travel plans,” Kevan suggested, shrugging his broad shoulders as he rose to shake Sansa’s hand, his sweat-slicked palm sliding against hers. She felt her stomach roil at the contact of his clammy skin, a touch that seemed as perverse as if he had groped her breast. “You never know, maybe Harry’s just as eager to move on.”

Sansa smiled falsely, giving Kevan her thanks, waiting until she was in the hallway to wipe her hand off on the kerchief in her purse. The whole meeting felt like a grey cloud that seemed to follow her down the narrow, dimly lit hall back to the reception area. The girl behind the desk gave Sansa a farewell smile that reeked more of pity than pleasantry and she quickly made her way onto Front Street. Her mind was racing with a million fragmented thoughts, no one of them fully realized enough to define as the cause of the gnawing anxiety she felt clenching the pit of her stomach.

Life had hardly dealt her a fair hand and now the deck seemed stacked in Harry’s favor; he got to have his fun and none of the responsibility and Sansa would have to broker her happiness for her freedom. She wasn’t entirely sure why leaving struck such dread in her, but she had never known anything quite like what she was building with Sandor. Sansa feared that just as easily as it came, love could disappear, like most things that remain unnamed.

Lost in the muck and mire of her mind, Sansa found herself nearly bowling over an elderly woman dressed all in pink. Luckily, Sansa was quick on her feet, able to steady the woman whose balance she upset by pulling her into what could almost pass for an embrace. She pulled back, ready to drown her victim in her most earnest apologies when she recognized the heart-shaped face of Olenna Tyrell looking up at her.

“Olenna!” Sansa nearly cried, helping to straighten the long pink peacoat that had gotten tangled around the woman’s legs and gave Olenna’s rose-patterned turban a gentle tug back over her neat grey curls. “You must forgive me! My mind has wandered off without me,” Sansa said, feigning levity as she straightened her own camel hair coat.

“Quite alright, my dear,” Olenna replied with a gentle laugh, turning to take Sansa’s elbow and steer them back in the direction she had come from. “I had been hoping our paths would cross all week, though I hardly imagined it would happen so literally.”

“Oh?” Sansa asked, her brow furrowed. “I didn’t realize we shared any social endeavors at the moment.”

“No, sweetling,” Olenna replied with a warm laugh. “I’m not trying to bend your ear over some civic matter. In fact, I’ve just been to see a good mutual friend of ours, so your timing is nothing short of serendipitous.” Sansa felt herself flush, the telling reaction eliciting a deep and sonorous laugh from the old woman on her elbow. “But don’t worry, I am your biggest champion, my dear.”

 “I’m not sure what you mean,” Sansa lied, giving the woman an uncertain smile. Olenna patted Sansa’s arm with her delicate, gloved hand.

“Join me for some lunch,” Olenna suggested, directing Sansa with a bump of her hip down the sidewalk that ran behind Main Street.  Sansa looked up as they passed an alley she recalled from the night she left Harry, smiling at the sight of the familiar rust red truck parked in the little opening behind Sandor’s shop. “You might find this old woman has a bit of sage advice for a young woman such as yourself.”

Sansa felt herself nodding despite her reservations as she held open the door of Coleman’s Pharmacy and followed Olenna to one of the small booths that lined the restaurant half of the drugstore. The pair knew each other in that cursory way that women who fundraise and hold luncheons often do. Sansa knew Olenna made a delicious coconut crème pie and favored the Queen Anne revival style homes that Sansa found stuffy. They shared the Junior League and the Historical Society between them, and, if Sansa were correctly reading the woman’s intimations, now Sandor as well.

As with every place in town Sansa seemed to frequent, Coleman’s hadn’t changed so much as a sugar dispenser in all the years she spent sipping malts at the counter with her siblings or her mother. Even now the staff was largely the same, all the changes typically signaling the death or coming of age of one of the many Colemans that populated Cold Spring. Sansa suddenly found herself the only variable in a mess of constants.

Sansa ordered a slice of the lemon pie she spied in the pie safe as she entered and Olenna asked for a simple cup of tea. Sansa found her spirits immediately lifted with the first bite of the bright and tart dessert, but it was the slight saltiness that finished the treat that had her closing her eyes to savor the pie completely. She lifted the slice with the tip of her fork, a smile splitting her face as she realized the genius at work in the crust. _Saltines_. When she raised her gaze from her dessert, Olenna was shaking her head, a bemused smile turning the corners of her mouth.

“I will never understand how a woman with a beautiful figure like yours can have such an appetite for sweets,” Olenna said, pulling off the little pink gloves that covered her fingers so she could squeeze the lemon wedge resting on the saucer below her jadeite mug. Giving the brew a stir as she cocked her head at Sansa, she went on. “Tell me how it is you have found yourself in the company of our lovely little town’s meat cutter?”

Sansa immediately felt self-conscious at Olenna’s chosen topic, especially in the public space they found themselves. Though the lunch counter was seemingly empty, Sansa knew the whole town leaked like a sieve and she realized she wasn’t entirely sure why a woman such as Olenna would take an interest in her personal life for any reason other than gossip. She set her fork down with a gentle _clink_ , patting her mouth for any trace of the whipped cream that generously topped the pie she suddenly found she had no interest in.

“Why are you so interested in my personal life?”

“Sansa,” Olenna began kindly, her little hands folded before her on the table, “I don’t care that you’re leaving your husband. I don’t care that you’ve already moved in with a man most would be surprised you had a personal connection with, myself included.” The old woman shook her head, appraising Sansa with a challenging gaze. “I do care, however, for the young man who has taken you in. Though it would please me greatly if a beautiful woman such as yourself became besotted with the big, gruff oaf.”

Sansa softened a bit as she recognized the protective tone that colored the woman’s voice, a tone she had often employed herself whenever the scarred butcher of Cold Spring became the topic of discussion amongst the ladies of her own social group. She knew what her friends thought of the man whose bed she shared every night, their interest in Sandor going only as far as planning Sunday dinner. Sansa kept her secret pinning over the town butcher to herself and if anyone shared her sentiments, they were too meek to voice them. She had not expected a socialite such as Olenna Tyrell to have such a personal investment in the man as well.

“What have you heard?” Sansa asked after a moment, meeting Olenna’s gaze with as much self-possession as she could muster given her current state of vulnerability. Sansa was no fool, she knew the town must be alight with talk of the latest development to her scandalous separation. She felt a frown tighten her face in consternation, her nail picking at some infinitesimal speck on the Formica tabletop.

“Only that Harrold Hardyng’s wife has moved out, apparently with help from one Sandor Clegane, and that after a heated exchange over said meat cutter’s counter, Mr. Hardyng is now the proud new bearer of one very black eye.” Olenna took a long drink of her tea, her brow arching playfully as she reclined back in her seat. “The boys never fight over homely girls, do they, Sansa?”

“I don’t suppose they do, especially with egos as large as Harry’s,” Sansa replied dryly, her sour mood calling for more sour pie. She pushed the pale-yellow custard around, claiming bits of the cracker crust with every swipe of her plate, her mind turning over this unforeseen encounter with Olenna. More than an inquiry into the poor social choices Sansa had made recently, a topic she had expected the old woman to speak to at length, she found herself the subject of Olenna’s personal scrutiny _. Her motherly concern_. “Did you ask me here today because you’re worried I’ll hurt him?”

“Harry?” Olenna asked, scrunching her nose at the thought. “Gods, but I could give a damn about that buffoon.”

“You know I mean Sandor,” Sansa said quietly, seriously, tucking a forkful of the pie into her mouth, her hand immediately set to tapping the utensil against the plate anxiously. Olenna sipped her tea pensively, returning the little cup to the saucer before covering Sansa’s busy hand with her own. “I knew there was bound to be chatter, it’s how all small towns are, but I never intended for him to be embroiled in the gossip surrounding my personal affairs.”

Olenna considered her response carefully, tapping her slender fingers against the little table between them as she stared past Sansa and into the street. “Sandor Clegane has been the subject of chatter in this town his whole life, thanks to that monster he called brother.” The old woman leaned closer to her, so close Sansa could see the way the powdered foundation gathered in the wrinkles around the woman’s eyes, her skin seeming a map of blue veins and sunspots. “He will survive the chatter, of that I’m sure. Not to mention, he gets the consolation of having a woman he’s likely spent half his life dreaming about out of all of it. And eventually, something even more outrageous will chum the waters of Cold Spring and the two of you will be old news.” Olenna’s hands were fully enveloping Sansa’s now, the remnants of the pie cast off to the side of the table. “But you, my dear, can _you_ really fall in love with a man while your husband is looming around every corner?”

“No,” Sansa replied with a sigh of resignation, shaking her head as she stared at the table. Olenna had a point that Sansa was loath to concede and she felt her heart sink, the fight she’d had with Sandor in the barn earlier that week coming back in vivid flashes. She had been unfair to him, equating him to Harry when there was simply no comparison. “I don’t suppose I can.”

“The Hudson Valley is a big place, my dear,” Olenna said with a grin, giving Sansa’s hands a quick pat before pulling her own away. “Do right by Sandor. Let him take you out and court you like no woman has ever let him.” Sansa watched as Olenna tugged on the little gloves that matched every bit of her rose-colored outfit, slipping a bill from her little pink clutch onto the table. Sansa was about to protest, to insist on paying for nearly leveling the old woman out on the sidewalk, but Olenna merely gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze as she stood to walk away. “You both deserve to fall in love, so make it count, young lady.”

Sansa found herself smiling down at the table long after Olenna left, something about the woman’s blessing leaving her feeling strangely liberated, even if Reno was never far from her mind. Sansa ordered another slice of pie to-go, taking the little bundle from the young girl who appeared from the kitchen. Making her way out to the street, Sansa found herself unwilling to head back toward the Edsel or back to the farmhouse. She didn’t want to be alone. Instead, she turned down the alley she had passed by for years without a second thought, running a hand over the cool, matte red hood of Sandor’s truck. A smile parted her lips as she tested the back door and found it unlocked. Sansa tried to step quietly, but the clicking of her heels resounded through the empty store, signaling her entrance.

Sandor was alone, his broad frame bent over the wide wooden table as he worked in silence. She leaned against the door frame, the plastic partition to the hanging room billowing gently against her stockinged leg. It looked like he was hardly exerting any effort as he moved, the knife in his hand barely nicking delicate connections that kept the muscles before him together. Under other circumstances, the whole scene would have been a gruesome sight for Sansa, but the quiet of the store and the deft way his gentle hands moved made her feel awe at his apparent skill.

“Come to spy on me, little bird?” Sandor asked without slowing his hands, glancing back at her with a sly grin on his face.

“I was just finishing up some errands when I passed by the little alley that leads here,” Sansa said, pushing off the wall to cross the little room to him, setting the pie box on the table beside the bloody carcass. She let her hands drift up his back, feeling the play of muscles as he worked under her touch. She heard him sheath the boning knife as he turned to face her, resting his lower back against the table, rubbing his hands on the towel looped about his scabbard. “You know, I’ve passed by that little alley my whole life and never even registered that it was there.”

“And now you feel compelled to travel down strange alleys and into the shops of strange men?” Sandor teased, pulling her toward him by the waist. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but what brings you here?” He was smirking in that impish way he always did just before he kissed her. Her heart leaped in anticipation, her hands mapping the muscles of his shoulders, desperate for him to close the distance between them. She felt his thumbs rolling over the crest of her hip bones, a wave of warmth crashing over her. Harry was always serious and aloof, never teasing. Not in a way that made her knees weak and her breath falter, at least.

“I had an appointment with a lawyer,” Sansa said as she leaned into him, fingering the buttons of his collar. Sandor smiled broadly at her admission, angling her head back gently as he ran his hands over her curls. “And just now, I’m coming from Coleman’s where I had lunch with _our_ good friend Olenna Tyrell. I brought you some pie.” Sandor laughed as he drew her into a deep kiss, his hands framing her face softly. His mouth met hers gently, passionately, as she melted into his embrace. Sansa never let Harry kiss her once her face was set, her appearance far more important than her husband’s empty kisses. But Sansa was powerless to Sandor, drawn to him in a way she didn’t quite care to understand as she found herself surrendering to his every touch.

“She must have caught you on her way out of here,” Sandor remarked with a smirk. “Seems I’m not the only one who got a lecture today.”

“She seems very interested in you,” Sansa teased.   

“Is my pretty little bird jealous?” Sandor asked, pulling back slightly to cock his head at her. She felt his thumbs circling her mouth, tidying the lipstick he had smeared out of bounds. Sansa felt lightheaded for a moment, her heart leaping in her chest. _His_ , she thought drawing her lip between her teeth in a shy smile. _His_. Because she was his, wasn’t she? She had been for as long as she could remember, she had just become so good at hiding the truth from herself all these years. “And of an old woman, no less?”

“Not jealous,” Sansa replied gamely. He hoisted her by her waist onto the clean table to his right, giving her thighs a squeeze as he leaned in to kiss her neck, that torturous space beneath her ear. “But I get the sense that if she were a few decades younger she might give me a run for you.”

“Is that so?” He rumbled against her lips, his voice traveling straight through her. He left her with a short kiss, disappearing into the other room where she heard the clatter of flatware. Sandor returned with a fork in his hand, sitting back on the edge of the table beside her, the pie box between them. Tugging at the twine that held the little box together, Sandor dug into one of the slices he revealed, passing her the fork after he disappeared his generous bite. Sansa waved the fork away with a shake of her head, one slice already one too many. “You expect me to believe that you, Sansa Stark, lover of sweets, don’t want any of this pie?”

“I already had some with Olenna,” Sansa confessed, her nose wrinkling.

“Eat the damn pie, Sansa,” Sandor said, shaking his head as he loaded the fork with a bite for her. “Since you already had some, you know how good it is.” Sansa groaned, slowly losing the war against herself, and she leaned forward to take his offering. Sandor pulled the fork back at the last second, leaving Sansa chasing after nothing while he chuckled mischievously. She couldn’t help but smile at how youthful he looked atop the table, his long legs swaying slightly as they dangled off the edge. He was so masculine in every physical aspect, but in his heart, Sansa was delighted to find him still such a boy. She looked at him expectantly, wondering if he would actually give her the pie now that she’d caved. He gave her the fork so she could trust he wouldn’t fool her again, gently resting his hand on her knee as he leaned in to kiss the whipped cream off her lips.

“Sandor,” Sansa chided half-heartedly as she pulled herself away from him slightly, touching her fingers to her lips as she glanced toward the door to make sure they were still alone. “Someone could see.”

“And?” Sandor inquired with a shrug, snatching the fork from her to carve out a massive bite for himself. “We’re just two people sharing a delicious lemon pie. I say let them look.” He shot her a wink, dipping the fork into the box again before offering her another taste and another kiss.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give you all fair warning that this chapter starts out very dark and deals with Gregor's history of violence toward people and animals. It only lasts for the first third or so, the rest of the chapter is more in line with the rest of this fic! (Plus, the next chapter is basically a trip to Fluff City.)
> 
> As always, so much love for my beta ToodleOo who takes the pile of hot garbage I send her every week and helps me make it so much better. 
> 
> And thank you to all of you out there reading and commenting. Have I told you lately that I love you? Because, damn it, I really do.

The only dreams Sandor ever remembered were the nightmares he had about Gregor.

Sometimes, Sandor dreamed he was a boy playing on the floor of the kitchen in the farmhouse at his mother’s feet. The cast iron stove had been the first thing he replaced when he moved back home, but in his sleeping mind, it remained unmoved and unchanged. Far away from the waking world, Sandor would feel the rippling pain seizing his face as his own brother materialized from the ether and held him against the searing hot stove by the scruff of his neck. Even as a boy, Gregor had the strength of a grown man and then some. He would cry and beg for help, all his efforts met with mocking from Gregor, and the vacant eyes of his mother’s corpse as he tugged at her skirts.

Other times, Sandor found himself weaving through a familiar forest, the ground cold and slick with snow beneath his boots. Besieged by enemy forces, fire erupting around him, accompanying every long whistle as bombs descended on their targets. He was back in France, but it wasn’t the war he feared. No, his fear resided somewhere else, in a different enemy. Often, Gregor would appear from the mounds of dead soldiers as Sandor rushed past, rising-up like some grey beast of the undead.

But the nightmare Sandor feared the most was about the ravine.

The dream only came when he least expected it, when he had fallen into an uncharacteristically deep sleep. He was being carried away, just a boy again, stuffed into a dirty, blood-soaked sack slung over his brother’s shoulder. His world was dark as light stippled the darkness of the bag, like stars in the night sky, as the confinement of his prison swallowed him whole. The bag smelled like fear and urine, the acrid scent washing over him as air rushed through the burlap with every heavy step his brother took. Sandor slammed into Gregor’s iron back as they rushed through the forest, the oppressive stench inside the sack suffocating him, making his world tunnel and shrink. Then the movement stopped.

Sandor knew exactly where he was.

Clawing at the sack feebly as the water rose, Sandor felt himself drawing in the last breaths he could before he was pulling in more water than air, the taste of death sharp and bitter on his tongue. Before the darkness engulfed him completely, Sandor could hear the deep booming laughter of Gregor carrying on the wind as he stood atop the precipice looking every bit the victor. Sandor knew he wouldn’t wake until he suffered through painful gasps for air that never came, those few moments circling death feeling like a lifetime unto themselves.

Gregor’s laughter was broken by another voice, a softer voice, coming from above him as he felt a feather-light touch over the clammy skin of his face. Sandor felt the heavy grasp of sleep ease and the world of the blood-soaked bag began to fade away around him.

“Sandor, wake up,” the voice tried again in the darkness, a hand jostling his shoulder gently. “Sandor.”

He awoke with a deep, hollow breath, sucking in clean air as his chest constricted and relaxed, the fear he felt a moment before drifting away. Sandor could feel Sansa’s hands in his hair as the reality of the peaceful farmhouse returned to him. Her lips covered the ruinous landscape of his face, whispering comfort into his ears as she covered him with her body. Sandor’s arms wrapped around her tightly as a lifetime’s worth of tears poured forth from him, pent up from decades of loneliness and anger. Sansa kissed the tears that wet his cheeks, her blue eyes fraught with concern in the ethereal glow of the moon. Grounding himself with every touch of her skin, the initial confusion and hurt lingering from the dream began to dissipate with her kiss.

“Where were you?” Sansa asked, her hands smoothing over his arms and chest as his hold on her eased a bit, allowing her to lean back. “I was so frightened. _You_ sounded so frightened, almost like you were hurt.” Tears spilled from her eyes and Sandor choked down a deep breath, still pinned with the dread of his night terror. He brushed her hair away from her face, pulling her into a desperate kiss that made his heart feel lighter. She had managed to draw some of the poison from him, her presence offering a respite he had never known.

In the faint glow of the deep night, Sandor decided to unburden his soul to her.

“My childhood wasn’t very happy, Sansa,” Sandor said after a while, once he could be sure the sobs that had racked him were through. He trapped her hand against his cheek, pressing a kiss against her wrist as he took her in. “I’ve never slept very well, not since I was a boy. Gregor always drags me through the depths of the Seven Hells the moment I close my eyes.” He watched Sansa's face twist with concern at the mere mention of his brother. He rose to lean against the pillows, dragging Sansa into his lap as he reclined. Her fingers were tracing idle patterns along his scarred cheek and neck as she leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’m usually reliving the day Gregor burned my face or some distorted memory of the battle where I hurt my leg.” He swallowed thickly past the growing lump in his throat. “ Other times, like tonight, I go into those woods back there. Somewhere I followed him once.

“One morning, after we finished the first round of our chores, Gregor asked our father for an empty grain sack,” Sandor recalled with a severe edge to his tone. Like most things that had gone wrong in his life, Sandor blamed his father for the way Gregor turned out. The request had seemed innocuous enough. _A sack is just a sack_ , Sandor tried to tell himself. “I found the bag under his mattress a week later, reeking of rot and piss. So, I got curious and I followed him out into the woods one afternoon when our chores were done.

“If he had seen me following him, he’d have beaten the shit out of me like he always did, so I stayed back as far as I could. He led me to a rocky overlook about a mile into the woods,” Sandor rasped in the dark, barely above a whisper, combing his fingers through her hair. He hesitated, unsure if he should continue, knowing that what came next was as responsible for his nightmares as everything else that came later.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Sansa offered gently in the wake of his silence, turning to kiss the dip of his clavicle, her hair spilling over his arms in a cool, copper wave. “We can just sit here awhile until you’re ready to sleep again.” He noticed that her voice was clear and there was steel in her tone as she wrapped her arms around him. “Or, I can listen and try to take some of the weight for you.”

“I watched as he put something in the bag, something living, and hurled it into this rocky ravine,” Sandor continued after a while. She clutched at him tighter, his hand smoothing over her back. He thought for a moment that perhaps he had said enough, that she would be able to read the silence, but something compelled him to go on. “I’ve spent my whole life around death and killing, but I will never forget the noises that animal made as it hit the water, or the way Gregor stood at the top of that embankment laughing.”

“Gregor is dead, Sandor.” Sansa turned herself to kneel between Sandor’s legs as she searched his eyes in the near dark. “Gregor can’t hurt you or anyone ever again.” Her hands were bracing his face, her lips kissing every bit of him as the tears came unbidden to him again. She held him against her, rubbing his back in slow, sweeping arcs.

“He’s already taken everything from me,” Sandor choked out, his shoulders shaking beneath her touch. He felt like he was panting, a full breath eluding him, and he wondered if this wasn’t just some new ending to his nightmare. Every inhale felt like he was pulling nails into his lungs, his fists balling the satin shift she wore in his calloused hands. Sansa unfurled one of his palms and placed it on her chest, forcing him to feel the way her deep breathing rolled through her chest. Sandor focused on her eyes, letting her set the pace for their breathing, calming him with every exhale. Sansa brushed his tears away with her fingers as the fit eased. He felt raw and near empty, unable to stop the last confession that weighed on him heaviest of all. “They found my sister at the bottom of that same embankment, you know,” Sandor revealed, his voice heavy and broken. “After weeks of searching and dragging the river, they found her just behind our house. I’ve always been too afraid to tell anyone about Gregor and the animals.”

“Sandor, I didn’t know…” Sansa’s wide eyes glistened again as her hand drifted to cover her mouth.

“Evelyn was all I had left after our mother died,” Sandor explained, wrapping his long legs around her as he ran his hand over the length of her back, the delicate fabric snagging on the rough skin of his fingers. He was afraid that Sansa might not look at him the same tomorrow, but he felt lighter. He needed her to know what kind of men he came from, how he was hounded by the sins of his father and brother. “She was the only happy, unsullied thing in this damned house and Gregor took her away.”

“Sandor…” Sansa’s eyes drifted closed as she touched her forehead to his, her little hands wrapping around the back of his neck. “He can’t take me away from you.” That was it, the balm he needed for his wounded heart, the realization of a future without Gregor. He claimed her mouth in a needy kiss and he let her presence envelop him. She pushed him gently down onto the bed, sliding into the circle of his arms. It wasn’t long before his eyes slid shut and sleep overtook him.

 

 

When he woke the next morning, Sansa was burrowed into his shoulder, her little hands clutching at him in her sleep. Sandor smiled down at the sight of her in his arms, a rare gift he still couldn’t wrap his mind around, as he summoned every bit of courage he had left to meet the day. He watched her brow crinkle at the loss of contact between them, a soft whimper emanating from her. He soothed the loss with a kiss on her cheek, laughing softly through his nose at the smile that formed on her lips. He pulled the quilt over her, letting his hand drift lazily through her hair. He kissed her bare shoulder, letting his teeth scrape her pale freckled skin. He resigned himself to leaving the warmth of his bed, his legs hitting the floor with a slight grimace.

Sandor left her side for the barn, the cold and the rain he found outside doing nothing to lift his heavy mood. He toyed with the idea of not going into the shop, a thought that seemed ridiculous since it was _his_ business, but he found the idea of making love to the red-headed beauty in his bed a much more attractive prospect. He knew he wasn’t about to shirk his responsibilities, but he allowed himself to fantasize anyway as he carted loads of shit off from the stalls.

Sansa was still sleeping when he made his way back inside to change. Sandor fished out a little pad of paper and pen he thought might still be in the drawer of the little end table next to the bed. Sliding his hand to the back, he felt his own little bundles of letters he had kept, behind the sea glass and his mother’s wedding ring. The ring had been left to him as a matter of consequence, his brother and sister both dead and gone. Sandor never imagined he’d have a use for it, and even if Sansa went completely mad and wanted to marry him when all of this was over, he wasn’t sure she’d even like the simple ring his mother wore. He leaned over her gently, careful not to disturb her, and slid the slender gold band with a solitary pearl over her ring finger. It was a good fit and he held her hand there for a moment, letting himself imagine what it would be like to call her his wife, and he knew he’d never wanted anything more. He slipped the ring back off, thanking the Gods it had not gotten stuck, and returned it to the little box in his drawer. He scrawled her a quick message, tenting it on the table beside her.

 

_I didn’t wake you, not because you looked so lovely, but because I would never manage to leave._

_Even though you are quite lovely, little bird._

 

The rainy drive into town only amplified his exhaustion, his focus on the simple task of driving requiring an inordinate amount of effort. Every mile he put between himself and Sansa dragged up the residual emotions his nightmare had stirred to the surface. He felt weak, having shown her the chink in his armor, and he feared that he would only ever see pity in her eyes from then on.

He pulled into the lot behind the shop, rain pouring down relentlessly in cold sheets. Sandor sat in the truck a long moment as the fat droplets fell against the truck in percussive thuds. He could still turn back, could go back and slip into bed beside Sansa’s warm body before it was too late. Suddenly the shop felt very wrong, the place that had come to define everything he hated from his past, the place that linked him to his brother and his father.

 _The kind of man I am_.

 “Morning, Gendry,” Sandor called as he made his way down the hall, shaking the water from his hair, pushing it into some semblance of order before pulling on a clean apron and his scabbard. “What are you doing here so early?”

Gendry looked about as enthused and unrested as Sandor felt. Gendry gave him a shrug and grunted something about not sleeping anyway and Sandor just nodded and joined his side. Usually, they worked in near silence, but today Gendry had switched on the radio by the register, WABC playing _stacks of wax_ _from today’s hepcats_.

“We can turn it off if you want,” Gendry grumbled, wrenching an aitch bone free with no small amount of force, reeling onto his heels. Sandor had never seen him so worked up before, sweat beading at the nape of his neck as he set to work trimming the pork leg for sausage. Sandor knew what venting one’s frustration looked like and Gendry was wrist deep hacking at a task that thankfully did not require precision. That was the beauty of the grind; all your scraps, all your failures, all your _hacking_ _frustration_ look just as you want them to in the end. “I just can’t stand the sound of the godsdamned rain out there.”

“No, it’s fine,” Sandor responded, keeping Gendry in the corner of his eye. “I could use a distraction.” Gendry nodded appreciatively and they fell into their same easy rhythm with Patti Page listing all the ways to love _Old Cape Cod_. It just made Sandor wonder what Sansa looked like in a bathing costume, digging her toes into warm sand.

Gendry gave Sandor a nod before heading into the hanging room to work over the grinder. Sandor begrudgingly unlocked the door, scowling at the rain pounding the sidewalk. He thought about all the mud he’d have to mop up later, the rain seeming to drive people from their homes just so they could piss and moan to him about the horrible weather all day. He palmed the muscle in his leg, seeing the first shoppers filtered onto Main Street.

In the work of an hour, Sandor watched as his white tile floor became slick with grime and the puddles of water the umbrellas left behind. Gendry carted out the bin of seasoned pork and set himself up to case next week’s Bratwurst on the back table, jumping up to the counter to help Sandor when the day hit its peak. The day seemed entirely uneventful, though Sandor couldn’t help but feel like people were eyeing him a bit more than normal.

“Something the matter with my face?” Sandor deadpanned to the fat man standing on the other side of the counter. Sandor was waiting on a woman in front of the man he’d addressed, the man who had been staring at him with a shit-eating grin from the moment he stepped in from out of the rain. He couldn’t quite place the figure in the tan trench coat and loafers that likely cost more than the whole of Sandor’s wardrobe.

“That’s funny,” the man replied with a deep chuckle, his red face sweating from receding widow’s peak to double chin. “Must work wonders with the ladies.”

“Right,” Sandor grumbled, narrowing his eyes at the rain-logged man he recognized as Kevan Lannister. Second cousin to his mother, or some such shit he couldn’t keep up with, Kevan had been his father’s favorite drinking buddy. Sandor never liked the guy and he scowled inwardly at the thought of Sansa alone with him. Turning his attention back to the woman he was waiting on, Sandor wrapped her little packet of stewing lamb in four practiced folds, quickly ensnaring the whole bundle in twine. He caught Gendry’s inquisitive eye as he folded his arms over the counter. “Anything else for you today, miss?”

“Just a fryer,” the dark-haired woman replied, nodding to the poultry case. She glanced over her shoulder at the man who had distracted Sandor. The chubby man met the woman’s passing stare, giving her a wink and a grubby smile. Through the case, Sandor watched as the woman scowled at the nosy stranger. He couldn't help but smile as he reached through the blood-red hills and curly kale valleys of the case display to fetch her pale, goose-prickled bird.

Gendry moved shoulder to shoulder with Sandor at the table lined with paper rolls, a sling of sausage links woven through his fingers. They had developed an effortless way of communicating about their guests, using the wrap station to turn their backs and talk shit for a moment. Or, in this instance, run interference for one another. Sandor liked having the boy around because he was able to deal with all the indecisive women and their screaming children far better than Sandor ever could. Not to mention Gendry was a handsome young man and an affable local boy. Sandor, on the other hand, managed just fine with the stubborn and particular old crones who shouted incessantly over the counter at him things like “make sure that cut is from the lean end…Larry only eats lean brisket!”. As if Sandor knew who the fuck Larry was or gave a damn what the old prick liked. That kind of thing drove Gendry insane.

Gendry was, whether he returned the sentiments or not, Sandor’s only friend.

“Who’s the schmuck in the fancy shoes?” Gendry asked, cocking his head back a bit, looping the sausages into a neat brick as he rolled the paper.

“Kevan Lannister,” Sandor murmured, clenching his jaw.

“Oh,” Gendry said flatly, adding after a beat, “who’s Kevan Lannister?”

“He’s a lawyer,” Sandor hissed impatiently, his eyes widening for effect. “ _Sansa’s_ lawyer.”

 “Seems pretty interested in you,” Gendry noted dryly, curling his lip in a snarl as he snuck a glance at the man in question.

“No shit,” Sandor huffed, hooking his pinky around the little knot on his chicken parcel. “Can you field him? I’ll ring up your girl.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Gendry replied with a grin. Sandor had hated it when Gendry called him _boss_ at the start, but now it seemed almost like an endearment between them and Sandor merely rolled his eyes. Gendry laughed quietly to himself, posing his customer again. “Alright then. You’ve got six bangers and stew meat. Anything else on this gloomy day? Well, then, Sandor will finish up right over there, so I can help this fine gent here.” Gendry settled over the counter, his best smile lighting up his face like a born actor. “What’ll it be?”

Sandor couldn’t help but smirk as Gendry shot the pretty young wife a toothy grin, passing Sandor her parcels as he passed by. He was just about to the hulking register when the man let out a bark of laughter and waved Gendry away. “I’d rather hear it from him, kid. Why don’t you do the ringing and let the boss and I talk shop?”

Gendry’s expression hardened for a moment, rapping his knuckles against the top of the case. Sandor forced a chuckle, tracing a deferential bow in Gendry’s direction. “Oh, he’s the one who runs the place, I’m just a grunt.” Gendry rolled _his_ eyes that time, wiping his hands on the towel looped around his scabbard.

“Oh, that’s rich coming from George Clegane’s son,” the man bellowed with another wink. Sandor thought about how smug he would look with one of those eyes jabbed out and fought the snarl that pulled at his lips. “You’ve been at this since you were just a pup.”

The hair on the back of his neck stood up, the man’s demeanor and words seeming like an echo from the night before. Sandor nodded for Gendry to take his place, eager to end whatever spectacle he was walking into now. They traded uneasy smiles as they changed places, Sandor positioning himself in front of the scale in the center of the main counter.

“So, what’ll it be?” He tried to smile as grotesquely as he could, making sure the man got the full show he so clearly desired.

“Not usually in the market for meat, son,” another _fucking_ wink, “got a wife for that.” Sandor’s new least favorite citizen of Cold Spring leaned closer, drumming his nicotine-stained fingers on the stainless-steel case top. “What do you recommend?”

“What do you like?” Sandor ground out, feeling his anger rise as he coaxed the man to the point. He was relieved to hear the bell ring, watching as his dark-haired customer disappeared. _One less witness_.

“Red-heads with long stems. Seems we have that in common,” Lannister said with a predatory grin and Sandor’s stomach turned. “But tonight, I’ll just take a steak. Expensive.”

 _I could have guessed._ Sandor forced a smile and a nod, the bell ringing again as the last customer left. He fished out a thick porterhouse, by far the most expensive cut in the case, flinging it onto the scale with a loud _smack_. He positioned his little finger on the tray, out of Kevan’s sight, adding a bit more _weight_ to the bill.

Gendry had returned to the table, stacking all the unsold parts on the table, getting ready to debone them for grinding the next week. He was making neat little piles of bone, fat, and skin, all the while watching Sandor and Kevan interact. Sandor rolled his eyes in Gendry’s direction as he turned back to the register with his best grin.

“There you are, Mr. Lannister,” Sandor all but sneered, sliding the hefty brown pack at the man. “Three even.” Lannister slapped a fin down on the counter with another _godsdamned wink_ and Sandor clenched his jaw. Kevan narrowed his eyes at Sandor in what seemed like disbelief, and he let out a low chuckle.

“When I heard my secretary gossiping about how George’s boy was shacking up with the Stark girl, I just couldn’t believe it.” Kevan laughed from his belly, low and oily. Sandor stiffened, his hand clenching around the chain that carried his scabbard. He knew enough what it felt like to be baited into a fight and he was all but growling at Kevan. “You ever tire of her, put in a good word for me, you sly pup.”

“Give your wife my regards,” Sandor said with a wink of his own, rocking on his heels. Sandor wasn’t about to give him what he wanted, a nice juicy bone to chew on with his bimbo secretary. Lannister scowled and shook his head, making his way through the door. Sandor let out a deep breath and sank back against the table behind him. He buried his face in his open palms, hollow laughter shuddering through him as he squeezed the base of his neck. “My brother used to call me _pup_.”

 There wasn’t much Gendry could say to that and Sandor wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear, or why he even brought it up in the first place. But after a long pause, Gendry was the one who had the courage to break their silence, offering his own admission.

“I needed the radio this morning because I go fucking nuts in the rain,” Gendry explained, meeting Sandor’s eye for a moment, his brow cocked. “I don’t think I ever really come back from Korea.”

 “I’ll let you know if it gets any better,” Sandor replied, wondering if sleeping next to someone was all he had needed.

 “Why don’t you take off? I’ve got this under control,” Gendry offered. When Sandor didn’t respond, Gendry turned his attention back to the table. “Not that it’s my place to tell you what to do or anything, but you’ve hardly taken any time off all these years.”

 Gendry wasn’t wrong.

“I can’t leave you to clean all this up by yourself,” Sandor gestured out to the foyer, frowning at the mess the day left in its wake.

“Sure, you can,” Gendry answered with a grin. “I don’t have a pretty girl waiting for me at home.” Sandor threw a towel at Gendry who just chuckled as he began to scrub the wooden table, the knives in his scabbard clanging against his leg with every step. “Say hello to Miss Stark for me.”

Sandor shot him a grin before heading down the hallway to trade his apron for his jacket. He was pleased to find the rain had eased up a bit, the heavy cover of grey clouds dissipating on the wind. He sped home, laughing at every deep dive his stomach would do as he raced over the rolling hills.

Sansa was standing out on the patio when he pulled the truck up, dressed in an olive-green dress that flared at her waist with a gentle swing. Her hair was pinned up in easy waves that framed her face, her deep red lips curled into a bright smile. She looked a vision in that dress, the first and last rays of sun for the day reflecting off her copper-toned hair as she rocked on her heels with visible excitement.

“What are you all dressed up for, little bird?” Sandor asked, hopping out of the truck with more gusto than he had been able to muster all day. “Got a hot date tonight?”

Sansa flushed, biting her lip in anticipation as her hands grabbed for him the moment he was in reach. Sandor laughed at her enthusiasm, meeting her with the kiss he’d wanted to give her all day. Sansa still kissed like a girl, moving against him with an eagerness that flattened him. She pulled back, flushing like it was her first kiss, and he smiled as she looped her arm about his neck. She looked up at him with smiling eyes, pulling him down so she could whisper in his good ear. He shivered at the feeling of her breath on his sensitive skin, feeling the perfect curve of her waist beneath the soft wool of her dress.

“Wanna get out of dodge?” Sansa bit her lip as she wagged her brows at him, her expression begging him to say _yes_. He let his hand drift down her back, his hand closing around her behind, giving it a playful squeeze.  She squealed his name in mock admonishment, flushing the deepest shade of crimson he’d ever seen before offering him her mouth again.

“More than you know, little bird.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the unexpected delay and my inability to get back to all of your lovely comments. Life got a bit heavy over the past weeks, but I think I'm back on schedule. More or less. 
> 
> Thank you, forever and always, to ToodleOo. Being my beta meant something a little bit closer to being my therapist at some point during the writing of this and the next chapter. 
> 
> To all of my lovely readers out there, I hope you enjoy a bit of fluff and romance. I promise not to stay away too long with the next one!

“Where are you taking us, little bird?” Sandor asked for the hundredth time since they’d left the farm. He was watching her as he leaned against the door of the Edsel, his hand propping up his head as he surveyed her through hooded eyes. He looked exhausted, but bemused by her insistence on secrecy, seeming content to tease her as he rested his free hand on her leg as she drove.

“I’m not telling you a thing, so just sit back and enjoy the sunset,” Sansa replied haughtily, steadfast in her resolve to keep their destination a mystery to him. Sandor wouldn’t wear her down so easily. Sansa couldn’t remember the last date she had been on, convinced there must have been one or two worth noting in her early days of courtship with Harry. Though even if she could recall one, none could compete with the fluttering in her stomach as she spent the whole afternoon planning her first date with Sandor.

“I hate surprises, little bird.” His words sounded like a warning, but Sandor was smiling easily at her, miles away from the state he had been in the night before. His hand wandered up her thigh, his fingers lingering on the edge of her pantyhose. She felt like a discovery to him as if the most commonplace things about herself were utterly mysterious to his eyes and touch. The revelation of the day, it would seem, were her stockings.

“I think you’ll like what I have planned,” she replied with a broad grin. She really wasn’t sure at all, preparing for him to hate every moment of their shared excursion, but she hoped he would let go and relax for a change.

“And if I don’t?” Sandor asked, cocking a brow at her as he squeezed her thigh firmly just above the knee. “What will I get then?”

“I’ll muck the stalls for a week,” Sansa offered smugly. She smoothed her skirts down, pushing his hand away with a reprimanding _smack_. “But I will make sure you love it, I promise.”

“A month,” Sandor countered, leaning across the seat so he could growl in her ear. Sansa rolled her shoulder against her cheek, shrugging him off as a shiver racked her. “So, you had better make it good.”

“Oh, knock it off!” Sansa giggled as Sandor gently grazed her neck with his teeth. She missed her gear as she shifted, cursing under her breath as she regained control of the car. “You are a terrible distraction!”

“That dress is a terrible distraction,” Sandor grumbled with a self-satisfied smirk on his face as he snaked an arm around her shoulders. She grinned, having selected the deep-green dress for just that reason. It wasn’t long before his hands were in her hair and the houses outside her window grew closer together as the wooded drive along the sleepy Hudson gave way to the city lights of Beacon.

Sansa turned down a familiar tree-lined street, a narrow inlet just before River Road opened up into the heart of downtown. _Le Canard Enchaine_ sat against the idyllic waterfront, a sacred refuge Sansa sought when her quiet life at the end of her perfect suburban street began to feel a bit too claustrophobic. It was a place Harry didn’t know about, a place that belonged to a different girl, a different life. To Sansa, getting in her car and navigating the familiar roads up through the winding countryside to Beacon was as good as time travel. She could return to the place where her family had been whole, before all the wars and all the death, a time before she let her true self slip away.

Sansa had hardly needed Olenna Tyrell's endorsement to get out of town. Sansa Stark had been running away to Beacon for years.

“ _The Enchanted Duck_?” Sandor asked, letting out a deep chuckle as they pulled into the rounded drive that circled a fountain in front of the restaurant. “And what in the Seven Hells is _The Enchanted Duck_?”

“Only my favorite place in the whole of New York,” Sansa replied as she killed the Edsel, leaning back to take in his reaction. He was scowling, not an unfamiliar expression in his limited rotation, but she suddenly felt that perhaps a surprise was ill-conceived after a tormented and near sleepless night.

“Was it somewhere _he_ took you?”

“No,” Sansa retorted with an unintended chill in her voice. _He never took me anywhere_. “My father used to take me here when I was a girl before he died. We can go somewhere else, if you like,” Sansa offered quickly, reaching to start the car again before the tears she felt swelling in her eyes could blur her sight. Sandor stilled her hand.

“I like it just fine, Sansa,” he replied softly, tilting her chin up with the hooked knuckle of his index finger. His eyes were dark and clouded with something Sansa couldn’t put her finger on, familiar as the look seemed. He slid closer to her across the seat, his hand unfurling to cup her cheek. His touch was warm and possessive against her skin and she ached to be consumed by him.

“You promise this is fine?” Sansa asked after a long moment, finally finding her voice, however small it was. She clutched at the collar of the shirt she’d picked out for him as she scanned his eyes, the light outside the car falling into a deep sunset blush.

“Cross my heart, little bird.” Sandor pulled her into a long kiss, his hand seeming to swallow the back of her head with its massive span. The couples drifting from their cars to the restaurant were beginning to look at the scene unfolding right there in plain sight. It gave Sansa a thrill to be unknown somewhere, the greatest appeal of the little bistro, and she found herself matching his ardor with little concern for the way the windows were beginning to fog. Sandor broke away first, flushed and grinning as he nuzzled his nose against her hair. “We need to get out of this car right now if you want to make it to this date you’ve planned unspoiled.”

It was tempting, Sansa thought, to let him have her right there. The way his hands seared her skin even through the thick knit of her dress left her wanting and breathless. _But there will be time for all that later_ , she reminded herself as she straightened her lipstick and teasing the curls he’d tousled back in place. Sansa nodded her agreement with a smile, pleased when he crossed the Edsel to open her door for her. He pulled her from the red vinyl seats not ungently, slipping his hand into hers as they walked up the steps to the heavy black door.

Sansa would have been surprised if Leon had not been manning the maître-d’ stand, the way his face lit up at the sight of her never failing to remind her of happier times. He was a slight man, old enough to be her father, and growing both bald and grey along the crown of his head. Throwing decorum to the wind, Leon eagerly swept Sansa into a hug, lighting her face with a true smile. Sansa offered the man each cheek in turn, kissing the air just over his ear by way of greeting,

“Ah, mademoiselle Stark,” Leon exclaimed in his fading accent, bracing her by her shoulders as he took her in. “We have not seen you for so long, I did not expect you this evening.” He chanced a glance over his shoulder at the table he knew the young woman favored, a frown souring his demeanor. “It seems we have reserved your favorite table already.”

“The reservation for that table is under Clegane,” Sansa explained, tugging Sandor closer to her side so Leon could get a look at him. “Leon, this is my dear friend Sandor. Sandor, this is-“ Before Sansa could finish their introduction, Leon had drawn Sandor into a bear hug, clapping the much larger man on the shoulders as he mocked a kiss to each of Sandor’s cheeks, scarred and all. Sansa stifled a grin behind her hand, utterly amused by the sight before her. A sentiment her date did not share, she’d wager, if the deep scowl tracing Sandor’s features were any indication.

“A _friend_ ,” Leon laughed, wagging his brows. “A lucky man, I dare say, as the lady has never brought a _friend_ before.” Sandor softened, squeezing Sansa’s hand as he took hold of her again. Leon plucked two leather-bound menus from their holding place in the heavy, oaken podium that housed the reservation book as though it were some sort of relic.

“No need, Leon,” Sansa interjected with a wave of her hand, motioning for him to return the menus. “You know what I like, just send out the usual and a little extra.” Leon nodded, ushering them to their table where he filled their coupes with the ’52 Perrier Jouet Sansa had requested when she’d made the reservation and left them to their view overlooking the river below. She had carefully placed herself in the seat on the far side of the table, leaving Sandor to sit with his unscarred side facing the rest of the dining room. The lights were low and there was music playing nearby, the movement of dancers drawing her attention to the other side of the wide and populous room.

“Come here often, then?” Sandor smirked at her from across the table, surprisingly amenable with all the attention her presence garnered from the dressed-up men in coattails and cummerbunds, as familiar faces paused by their table to greet her. “Seems like you’re a bit of a celebrity in this little hole in the wall.”

“I’ve been coming here most of my life,” Sansa reasoned, smiling broadly. Sandor turned over his hand, offering her his open palm and she happily placed her other hand in his. She found herself wishing she had asked for one of the rounded banquettes so she could feel his warmth beside her, but her father had always sat them by the window, and Sansa didn’t know any other way. Sansa curled her hand around the delicate stem of the glass before her, raising the coupe near eye level. “What should we toast to, then?”

“None for me,” Sandor said with a small shake of his head as he pushed the glass away from himself. “Not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize.” Sansa’s face fell, her brow drawn in confusion. Her hand faltered for a moment, feeling a bit of a fool holding the very expensive champagne she had ordered. “You drank that night, after-“

“That’s exactly why I shouldn’t, Sansa,” he interjected, not unkindly. She realized then what he was truly saying and she lowered her glass. Restraint took more effort than indulging and she got the sense he hadn’t known many happy occasions to drink before. “I don’t want to forget anything about tonight.”

“I’m not asking you to drink to forget,” Sansa explained softly, leaning toward him in the faint candle light. She wasn’t sure when she stopped seeing his scars, but she found his strong features and dark hair attractive because of, not in spite of, the scarring of his face. She never wanted to forget the way he looked that night. The way he looked at her that night. “I’m not even asking you to have more than a sip to toast with me.” She slid the coupe in his direction. “But it is bad luck to drink alone and besides, I would never have considered you to be such a featherweight, Clegane.”

Sansa was biting her lip, trying to look gamely and seductive as he considered her stonily. He finally raised his glass, nodding for her to pick up her coupe. Sansa nearly dropped the glass she had just lifted from the table as she felt his fingers clench around that spot just above her knee he loved to squeeze. She knew she must be flushing like mad and she was certain she had let out a too-loud gasp, drawing attention from the man at the table beside them, but he _was_ enjoying himself. “To mucking stalls for a month,” Sandor teased as he touched his glass to hers.

“To getting out of dodge,” Sansa amended, her skin goose-prickled and tingling. Sandor drained half his glass one swallow while she took a slight pull. Champagne always went straight to her head and if she wasn’t careful, before long she’d be giggling and acting a fool. “It is very fine,” Sansa commented with a shy smile, running her thumb over the bright red kiss she left on the rim of the glass as heat colored her cheeks. Sandor chuckled at her, grinning as his eyes drifted with hers across the dining room.

Sansa immediately felt a pang of guilt in her stomach, certain he had noticed the source of her distraction. She hadn’t danced across the wide parquet floor since her father had let her stand on his shoes, teaching her simple steps before scooping her into his embrace. It was as though she could see him in her memory, projected onto the floor across the room, flitting amongst the other dancers with a specter of her former self.

 Sandor pushed off from the table with a huff, thrusting his open hand at her, breaking her from her memories. Sansa looked between the bear paw and the bear, wondering what he was doing. He couldn’t possibly be asking her to dance with him. _Could he?_

“What’s this?” She asked, her brow furrowed, ignoring his hand while taking another long sip of her champagne.

“You know damned well what it is, little bird,” Sandor replied as he fixed his gaze upon her, his grey eyes tinged with mischief. “Now take my hand before I change my mind.” When Sansa still didn’t rise, Sandor jerked his head roughly toward the dance floor before pulling her out of her chair.

“I wasn’t going to make you dance, Sandor.” Gods, she hadn’t even thought of asking, knowing his answer was sure to be _no_. But as he fanned is arms wide just to spin her back into the nook he made with his arm, Sansa saw the wide grin that had vanquished his typical scowl. “But you aren’t so bad at it, are you?” Sansa heard the girlish delight that had crept into her voice as he spun her and marched her around the floor. He laughed in response to that, winking as he guided her backward over his arm.

“I’m a bit rusty, but no, little bird,” he rumbled into her ear, making her flush as the timbre of his voice vibrated through her. “I rather like dancing, especially with pretty _friends_.” His hand in the small of her back pinned her to him, his unscarred cheek pressed to her forehead as they swayed. “Besides, I know what you look like when you want something, and you wanted to dance.”

“My father loved to dance,” Sansa mused, a little more wistfully than she had intended, the thought carried from her on a long sigh. “He always made time for a dance here, even if we just stopped for lunch, even when there was no music playing.” She could tell Sandor didn’t know what to say, feeling the hinge of his jaw clenching and unclenching rhythmically as he kept her pressed close to him. “The point of me telling you all this is that I think my father would have approved of you. I think he would like you being here with me.”

“A big foul-mouthed fucker who comes home reeking of blood and death is what your father wanted for his little girl?” Sandor barked out with a laugh. Sansa knew he was trying to tease, but after the side of himself he’d shown the night before, she sensed the self-deprecation in his words.

“He would have appreciated that you work hard and make an honest living,” Sansa said evenly, pulling back to look solemnly into her partner’s eyes. “He hated businessmen and salesmen, thinking men like Harry were all a bunch of dishonest crooks.” Sandor snorted at that as a smile of agreement spread across his lips. “My father didn’t care so much for wealth or pedigree, he simply wanted for me a man who was kind and honest.” Sansa placed a hand over his heart, swaying in his arms. “A man who would honor and respect me.” She let the hand over his heart drift to the strong, muscled planes of his back.

“He sounds like he was a good man, Sansa.” Sandor’s arm closed around her waist in a strong embrace and Sansa let herself lean into him fully, her cheek pressed to his chest as his heart thudded strong and loud beneath the soft grey fabric of his shirt. “I wish I could tell him how grateful I am for you.”

Sansa closed her eyes as a single tear drifted down her cheek and onto his shirt. She didn’t know if he understood the full weight of what he said, that if her father had not died that summer after her eighth nameday, she would never have moved to Cold Spring. She opted to remain silent, clutching to him as his strong arms moved her about the floor as though she were made of air. She felt tears slipping quickly from her eyes and soon her face was being turned up to his, like a flower too long out of the sun. She wanted to tell Sandor how much she loved him, how she had never felt as whole as she did in his arms, but she simply could not shape the words with her mouth. He was looking at her with a queer intensity that filled her with yearning, making her feel as though she were grieving the man whose presence she still shared.

 _Reno_ , whispered a little voice in the corner of her mind and Sansa would have surely fallen apart had Sandor not claimed her with a searing kiss.

The song ended, too soon for her liking, and Sandor led her back to the table by the window where the feast she had ordered followed shortly behind. Their meal began with bread and olives and cheese, followed by oysters and escargots, with trout amandine, sweetbreads, and snapper to finish. Somewhere in there, he ordered another bottle of champagne as well, though Sansa was feeling as if she had already drunk the lion’s share of the bubbly. Sandor didn’t even say anything as she devoured the trout Leon brought for him, reaching over her own entrée to get to his until he switched their plates with a laugh. He ate the snapper with no complaint, letting out a roar of laughter when she swatted his fork away from the trout with her own when he made to steal a bite.  The table looked like a crime scene when all was said and done, and Leon looked amused when Sandor tipped the last of the champagne into Sansa’s glass. 

“Time for dessert, little bird,” Sandor said as Sansa tilted back the rest of her drink, trying not to giggle, the thought of possibly eating another course was so very absurd.

“Please, I give up,” Sansa groaned, trying to meet the waiter’s gaze for the check. “I’ll do all of your chores forever if you promise not to make me eat another bite.”

Sandor barked out a crackling laugh that summoned their waiter quicker than Sansa’s imploring gaze. Sandor sent for the bill and Sansa reached for her clutch which prompted another booming laugh from her large, and she suspected slightly intoxicated, companion. “You’re not paying, little bird.”

“Yes,” Sansa affirmed, pinning the bill to the table tightly with her finger before he could snatch it up. “It was all my idea, my planning, _my_ date,” Sansa reasoned, leaving out that her idea had been quite an expensive one. “And with everything you’ve done for me, this is just one small way for me to say thank you.”. 

“You can pay for the next one,” he insisted, slipping several bills onto the black tray and sending them on their way with Leon before she could try and dissuade him again.

Aside from kissing her whenever the mood seemed to strike him, Sandor had been a perfect gentleman. He pulled out her chair as they rose to leave and helped her into her coat. He was even there to take hold of her elbow as she descended the stairs, teetering for a moment with a giggle as she took his arm. She was headed straight for the Edsel, her arm slipping through his as he caught her hand, remaining fixed to his spot.

“Let’s not go home just yet, little bird.” He spun her into his embrace as he had earlier, her heels clicking over the driveway as she turned, the world a beautiful blur of lights. She could hear the faint rush of the river in the distance as he guided her down the drive they came in on, toward the bright lights of Main Street.

Nothing about Beacon was terribly different than Cold Spring, yet nothing was the same.

“I’ve never really seen Beacon before,” Sansa mused after a moment of walking through a residential stretch, cocking her head at a house that reminded her of one she’d always liked in Cold Spring that burned down a few years back. “I’ve been to that restaurant many times and passed Beacon on the train, but I’ve never spent much time getting to know any other city.”

“People seem to forget that anything exists between their stops on the train,” Sandor said, glancing over the house that had caught her attention for a moment before turning his gaze back to her. She wondered if he found the same familiarity in the high roofline and dogeared shingles that lined the dormer window of the attic. “There’s something impersonal about the train, the way it just cuts through all these towns.”

“And how is driving any different?” Sansa smiled up at him, slipping her hand into his, cocking a brow at her own clever observation. “Seems to me you’re just as interested in getting to your destination once you get behind the wheel.”

“Not at all,” Sandor replied, giving her hand a squeeze as they ambled beneath the mellow street lights. “When you drive, you have to pass through all the little towns and see the way life looks somewhere else. When you’re on a train, you get up to get food or relieve yourself in a different car and then you return to your seat.” He paused, guiding her around a puddle she had unwittingly been about to step in. “When you drive, you have to stop somewhere completely unfamiliar and find your way to what you want.”

“That’s exactly why I like the train,” Sansa teased with a smile.

“But you miss out on all the little, _funny_ details as you rush by on the train.” They passed the red and white awnings of Beacon’s market. They passed a haberdashery and gaggle of giggling teenagers coming from the soda fountain just closing-up. They paused in front of a large window displaying cased meats and a hand painted pastoral scene around its border. Sandor looked almost disappointed at the sight of a butcher in Beacon and Sansa wondered if he hadn’t been imaging their life in a different town, just as she was. “If all you ever care about is your destination, you pass over all the good stuff rushing by outside your window.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were a bit of a romantic, Sandor Clegane,” Sansa purred into his ear, leaning in to kiss his neck as he so often did to her. The wine and the anonymity emboldened her there on the street. She wrapped her arms around his neck, tilting her head back for a kiss which he gladly gave.

“No one would ever believe you,” he rasped into her mouth, backing her up against the brick wall of some other man’s butcher shop. He pressed his forehead against hers, the air shared between them sweet and smelling of fall. Of _him_. Sansa lifted onto her toes, desperate to be as close to him as she could, but he eased her back on her heels with a gentle push. Her arms drifted apart from his neck, sliding down his chest until he trapped her hands against him. She could tell he was a bit drunk, and damned if she wasn’t too, but it seemed to bring out a certain look of defenselessness in him that stilled her heart. “I love you, Sansa.”

He was holding her face gently, looking at her intently as his fingers skimmed the back of her neck. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t suspected he loved her. Everything he did spoke to the love that had somehow always been between them, but neither of them had ever had to courage to say it out loud. She didn’t realize how desperately she needed to hear the words until they left his mouth.

“I love you, Sandor.”

Sansa felt boneless and engulfed in warmth as he parted her lips with his. She returned his deep, unhurried kiss beneath the glow of another butcher’s neon sign in a town where they had no past. She forgot about her life elsewhere, about all the pain they shared, and the time they’d wasted apart. She soon forgot everything that wasn’t the warm slide of his tongue against hers or the feel of his hips pinning her to the coarse brick wall. They kissed until peals of youthful laughter drew them from their lustful oblivion.

“Perhaps we should get off the street,” Sansa suggested in a quiet voice as he pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. She reached a hand to his face, clearing away an errant streak of her coral lipstick that marked his upper lip. “What do you say to spending the night here instead of going home?”

“I’d say you were an eager little bird,” he whispered into her ear with a rumbling laugh that resonated pleasantly through her. He kissed her neck, that favorite weakness of hers to exploit, and she quickly shrugged him off. “Did you have someplace in mind?”

“We’re off the train now, Sandor,” Sansa teased with a grin, taking him by the hand. “Time to find our way.”

They didn’t have to wander far before happening upon the sleepy little Beacon Inn.

They were barely inside the room Sandor had secured for them before his hands fisted her hair and his mouth descended upon hers fiercely. Sansa had never felt so delightfully drunk before, dizzy from much more than just the champagne, as his hands urgently roved her form seeking to undo the closures that would free her.

Sansa gave him a shove backward onto the bed with a well-timed palm to the chest. He didn’t quite stumble, but it nevertheless pleased her to see him sink onto the bed with a look of surprise on his face. Sansa stepped out of her heels slowly, her eyes never leaving his as she deftly unzipped the _terribly_ _distracting_ dress she had chosen and let it pool about her feet.

“Let me,” Sandor murmured in the darkness when her hands moved to the clips that held her stockings in place. He beckoned her closer with the curl of his long finger and she obeyed, gnawing at her lip as she placed the arch of her foot on his knee as he silently commanded with a pat of his hand. She knew he liked her legs, knew there wasn’t much about her he didn’t stop to appreciate in their intimate moments together, but she never thought the mundane act of removing hose could make her breath quicken. He used his calloused touch to tease her, every line he drew against the sensitive skin of her thighs making her quiver.

“I find you terribly overdressed, _monsieur_ Clegane,” Sansa teased breathily, squealing as he pulled her atop him. Sitting astride his muscular legs, Sansa arched into the broad palms that smoothed over her bare skin as she worked the buttons of his shirt free, rolling her hips against him as he pressed her closer. He hoisted her up in the air effortlessly as she shucked his shirt from his shoulders before he deposited her onto the center of the bed with a bounce that was more for his enjoyment than hers. He kicked off his remaining garb and fell upon her with a predatory grin.

“Better, little bird?” Sansa nodded, her eyes devouring every inch of his bare and muscled skin as though she were a starving woman at a feast. She had never thought of herself as wanton, but the way she was leering at him was indecent and decidedly unladylike. Not that Sandor seemed to mind, grinning against her skin as he kissed his way from her neck to her navel. She looked down into his grey eyes as he palmed her breasts, her breath hitching as his thumbs rolled roughly over her nipples, urging him on.

Though they had made love many times since the morning in the barn, Sansa had felt unsure of herself, unsure of what he liked and so she let him take charge. But somewhere during the weeks she’d spent on his farm, her girlish infatuation with him had transformed into a woman’s lust. She wrapped the legs he loved so much around his waist lifting her hips to meet him as he entered her slowly, deliberately, drawing a low moan from her parted lips. His eyes never left hers as he bucked his hips against her, each breath she exhaled bringing her infinitesimally closer to the ecstasy she was chasing. She could feel the icy heat of pleasure rolling over her body as he touched something deep inside her that made her shiver.

Sansa felt her eyes roll shut as her blood hammered loudly in her ears. She tried to focus on the feel of him inside her, the way his fingertips dug into her thighs, the way he rasped her name against her ear. He was consuming her, his face against her neck, kissing and nipping at her delicate skin as the world began to darken around her and she felt herself lose control. She clawed at him as she let herself go over the edge, her nails digging into his shoulders as she came with his name on her lips. 

Sandor held her for a long time after as their lust cooled to intimacy, the odd bubble of laughter piercing the silence between them. Eventually, she drifted down his chest, her head resting gently on his side. These moments they shared in the dark had become a sort of confessional for them, a way to unpack the myriad ways their lives had begun to change so quickly. Sansa found she needed to reconcile the real man in her bed and under her hands from the idea of the man that had occupied her thoughts for so long. She discovered that he wasn’t as happy as she had told herself he was, though she hadn’t been all that happy herself. She wondered if he had been happy when he wrote those letters to her. She wondered if she was why he came home.

 “Do you ever wish you had stayed in Scotland after the war?” Sansa heard herself ask finally, her words muted by the soft hair that felted his stomach as her fingers brushed idly over the deep scar on his thigh. He had assured her his pain there was deep and muscular, but she was still cautious when she explored his leg with her touch.

“Yes and no,” he replied, tucking his left hand behind his head while he stroked her cheek with his right. He looked relaxed and contented and Sansa thought for a moment that perhaps they should just stay there in Beacon forever. “I miss being somewhere no one knew me or my family, somewhere close to the sea.” He dragged his thumb over the apple of her cheek before plunging his fingers into her tresses, his eyes distant as he reminisced. Sandor smiled as she sighed into his touch, the feel of his fingers against her scalp a newly discovered pleasure. “I’m much happier here with you now than if I were alone in Scotland.”

Sansa rewarded him with a warm smile and a kiss on his stomach, her breath over his skin causing him to flinch a bit. She smiled at that, her ability to bring such a strong man to shivers, and decided to run her fingers featherlight up his side. She had never heard Sandor Clegane giggle before, but the sight of him defenseless and squirming was _delightful_. And short-lived. He soon had her hands trapped in his, barricading her in a tight embrace.

“We could move away if you want,” Sandor said between indolent kisses that warmed her skin. “I have some money saved and I could sell the farm.” He pressed his hand into the hollow of her back, working his touch up the gradual curve of her spine. “I’d go wherever you asked.”

 “You’d do that? You’d leave the shop and the farm behind?” Sansa was careful not to sound as though she disliked his home and his work because, in truth, she would be sad to leave it all behind. But she craved the freedom to love him out in the open. Getting a divorce wouldn’t change the fact that she _was_ divorced. A new city would.

“What do I have that means more to me than this?” He asked, gesturing between them. “I live in a haunted house, work the only job I have ever had, and not one I ever wanted, mind you.” Sandor wet his lips, leaning close to touch the tip of his nose to hers. “What matters to me more than you?”

Sansa knew she needed to tell him about Reno.

But she didn’t. She kissed him deeply, ardently, falling under his intoxicating spell as she hooked her leg around his. She would find a way to tell him, she swore to herself, if he ever let her up for air. Not that she was complaining.

She had a man that loved her, after all.  

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, Toodle Oo is my grammatical hero and has made this chapter a much better read :)
> 
> I may have the next chapter to you on Friday, but it just depends on how badly y'all want to read it!

Something about spiriting Sansa away to a new place and getting to taste public life together began to change everything between them over the better part of the month that followed their night in Beacon. Most changes were good, pushing them both into a new, if not a little strange, intimacy. Some changes were harder, forcing their introspection, dredging up their flaws and insecurities like mines from the ocean floor. While Sansa had never been terribly inhibited with him, Sandor got the sense that she was trying on new versions of herself away from their small-town lives.

Sandor found it harder and harder to pin her down, as though every trip were a chance to wear a new mask or to inhabit a new role.

The week after Beacon, they went dancing at the social club Gendry recommended in Rhinebeck, Sansa wore her hair down and styled herself in cropped navy cigarette pants and the red checkered shirt he’d torn the buttons off. He found he rather liked that Sansa and was willing to bet she did too, the smile never once falling from her face that night. He liked how bold she was in slacks, leaping into his arms whenever the music seemed to inspire her to break out her limited repertoire of Lindy Hop moves. Though it sometimes strained his leg to catch her on the fly like that, he felt himself smiling every time she crashed into his embrace, her head thrown back with riotous laughter. Her effervescence was contagious, and he found it impossible to deny her when she would shimmy her hips, beckoning him into her orbit with a flirtatious smile, pulling him close to keep time with her. He ended up with several love bites on his neck come Sunday morning, just a reminder of the way she spent most of the drive back to the farm with her lips on his ear, recounting all the things she loved about the date he’d chosen.

The following Saturday, Sansa drove him to an old movie theater in Chatham called The Crandell. The place was draped in ruby red tapestries and every finish seemed to be trimmed in gold. They saw _The Long, Hot Summer_ from the balcony seats, taking advantage of the poor attendance in the theater to kiss and pet like the lip-locked teenagers in the row behind them. After, Sansa sat in his lap at the drive-up burger joint on the other side of town as they shared a milkshake and fries. And more kisses. Patsy Cline was singing about _a-walkin’ after midnight_ over the crackling speakers that studded the wide, fluorescent-lit cantilevered eaves of the Googie-inspired building and Sansa had sung the melancholy tune all week after.

Sansa even surprised him that weekend by booking a small cabin on a nearby lake instead of one of the myriad hotels or motor courts in town. While it was too late in the year to go for a swim, the leaves had begun to change in earnest and the sunrise he dragged her out of bed to see was beautiful, worth every bit of belly-aching he endured getting her outside. They lazed about in the patio chairs on the small dock that led out to deep water, and Sandor made a mental note to return in summer when they could swim. They made love on the well-worn planks of the dock before begrudgingly loading up their things in the truck, reluctant to get back to the farm.

When they had been on their date in Chatham, Sandor spotted a flyer on the bulletin of the burger hop that advertised painting classes at a local college. It seemed Bard hosted Saturday and Sunday painting classes from their self-proclaimed _idyllic_ riverfront campus. Sandor had never been interested in, nor tried his hand at painting, but when he told Sansa to fetch her little blue paint case as they loaded up the Edsel Saturday afternoon, she nearly mauled him with her excited kisses. He had slipped Gendry a few extra bills that week in exchange for watching the farm, grateful to get away for more than just an evening for a change.  

They missed the Saturday class by the time they left the farm, so they headed straight for the guest house Sandor had found just off the cobblestone main square of the town that grew out from the ivy-covered college campus as it had grown over the years. Sansa beamed up at him as they pulled up to the modest house, winding her arms about his neck as she drew him into a deep kiss. 

It was just a short walk down Campus Road to the manor house and garden where the class would be held the next morning. Ambling past the large house that had likely been built for some Baratheon tycoon, they decided to take in the clear night sky from the limestone benches that framed what Sandor was loath to admit was indeed an _idyllic_ riverside garden. A tarnished copper plaque embedded in the weathered stone entrance pronounced their sanctuary _Blithewood_ and Sandor smiled as Sansa’s hands drifted over the epitaph.

_Blithe and bonny, indeed_ , Sandor mused as Sansa pulled at him to keep her excited pace, her hair a glowing halo about her smiling face.

Leaning back into his embrace, they whispered quietly and laughed deeply as they drank in the starlight, warmed by the liquor in flask they passed between their wandering hands. The night was chilly, and Sandor was grateful he had the forethought to pack the Scotch to nip at while they stargazed.

He was always careful of how much he drank on the rare occasions that he did, that evening no exception, relieved to find he had little interest in being more than fuzzy with her around. It was Sansa he had to restrict, as her pulls from the flask grew longer and her kisses deeper. Her lips tasted of oak and spice as she trailed kisses from his mouth down the cage of his throat, her lips moving against his chest with each button she succeeded in undoing. When she eased his trousers down enough to take him in her mouth after what seemed like an eternity of heated kisses, Sandor mustered the strength from some rational place inside his mind to stop her before someone in the house saw.

He was certain they put on quite the show for the ruddy-faced woman who maintained the cluster of guesthouses upon their return. The proper lady Sansa embodied at breakfast the next morning was a definite departure from the wanton creature whose pleasured cries had filled the quiet night. The woman’s round face only reddened, her eyes volleying between the unlikely pair, as they forced awkward conversation over their simple morning meal.

It took an extra ten minutes to make the five-minute trek back to the riverfront for their class. Sandor was unable to deny the overwhelming urge he felt to pull Sansa into the densely wooded tree line to kiss her lipstick off, letting his hands roam under the soft, sage green sweater that fit her oh-so-snugly. He cursed her for wearing slacks, certain she would not have stopped him from taking her right there against a tree had she worn a skirt. He helped her tidy up her lips before giving her rump a sound smack as they resumed their trek to the class that had begun without them.

Sansa set up their easels shoulder to shoulder for the open-air class. They giggled, nearly to the point of being reprimanded by the stone-faced man who taught the class. Sandor found her staring at him after he completed every section of the landscape all ten or so students had been tasked with recreating, a coy and enchanted look upon her flushed face. When the class was finished and the beatnik teacher made his rounds to appraise their work one on one, he commended Sansa for her nearly photorealistic interpretation of the scene, praise which was well deserved. Sandor had seen her sketch and evoke familiar shapes and landmarks in the books she kept neatly piled on the step-up end table in his living room, but he had never seen her work with a full complement of colors and brushes before.

She was truly talented.

When the wiry professor looked from Sandor’s canvas to the hulking, scarred man who made the mess, Sandor was prepared to face whatever mockery was headed his way. But the slight man surprised him, mortified him even, rounding up all the students to look upon what he called a _delightfully impressionistic_ rendering of the Hudson River.

Sansa had never seemed more proud to take his arm as they packed up their things and made their way back into town.

Sandor and Sansa shared a romantic, low-lit dinner at an Italian place called Mercato, a recommendation from the woman Sansa had chatted up at the easel beside them. The restaurant was simple and unassuming, seemingly run out of the ground floor of the tall, angry chef’s house. Sansa called him _impassioned_ as they watched the chef grow redder in the face and shout louder than either had ever heard while dining out before. The open kitchen was all the entertainment they needed as they shared a pleasantly quiet meal of carbonara and veal saltimbocca. Sansa practically speared his hand with her fork when he went to take a bite of the lemon ricotta cake they were supposed to _share_ for dessert, so he got some cannoli to go and reminded her how kind it was of him to _share_ them with her as they devoured the treat back in the cold grass at Blithewood. They each drank a bit more than they had the night before, Sandor hardly remembering how they made it home, groaning when the sun pierced through the slatted blinds of the guest house the next morning.

When Sansa’s mood seemed a bit off over breakfast, he chalked it up to their shared hangover.

But she was quiet the entire drive home, her gaze fixed on the scenery slipping by her window. Sandor couldn’t help but feel gutted as it became clear to him that her silence was not just from the Scotch they shared in the garden, seemingly derived from something else entirely. He couldn’t quite puzzle out the drastic shift in her moods, the entire weekend feeling like a blissed-out dream until their return. She was always warm, even in the flashes of anger she had shown during their time together, but there was a chill that had crept into her eyes. When they arrived back at the farmhouse, she gathered her things and made her way to their room, excusing herself for a nap.

Sandor decided to make his way out to the barn, feeling lost, as if he had never been alone in his house without her before. Dusk had claimed the horizon as he stalked through the yard, a single band of golden light providing a stark contrast to the bruised storm clouds that had blown in from the north.

Winter wasn’t long in coming, he realized with a frown.

“Hey buddy,” Sandor greeted his horse who whinnied his surprise, their nighttime brushings having become fewer and further between with Sansa around. Lady eyed him lazily from her saddle blanket, sighing her greeting without lifting her head an inch. Sandor’s presence roused a soft bleating chorus from the goats, to whom he offered a deep salutation before he turned his attention to the grooming tools lining the back wall of Stranger’s stall. Sandor dipped his hand into the bucket, grabbing an ugly, poxed green orb that to Stranger, seemed just as delicious as the polished red-skinned apples at the market and he made it disappear quickly between his chomping jaws. “Strange fucking day,” he confided to his oldest friend, rubbing his ruined cheek against the horse’s soft mane as he tried to chase off the odd feeling he carried around.

After rubbing Stranger down, a routine that always seemed to restore the semblance of order to his thoughts, he led him by loosely held reins into the wide pen outside the large doors. When Sandor chanced a glance up at the house as he walked Stranger in an oblong loop, the lights of his bedroom were glowing a soft yellow against the growing darkness.

He felt guilty ignoring Sansa, but she had wedged something between them with her silence that he wasn’t quite sure how to address. When hot, fat tears slipped down his cheeks, he brushed them away with a rough swipe of his knuckles, whispering a _fucking_ _hells_ to himself; a warning to get his head together. Turning one last loop around the pen as his old friend began to lag, Sandor looked up to the house, relieved to see it had gone dark.

Sandor wasn’t sure if it was the cold that made his leg throb worse than normal or merely a psychosomatic manifestation of his inner turmoil. Either way, it was sunk into a hot bath where Sansa found him later that night.

Sansa gave Sandor a small smile as she entered the bathroom, not quite able to meet his eye as she slid down the tiled wall between him and the sink. She was facing him, her ivory cheek coming to rest against the rolled edge of the standing tub as her right hand drifted lazily through the soap-hazed water. She looked exhausted, though every bit as beautiful as she always was to him, even if she was still wearing the dress she had fallen asleep in the day before.

“Come to break my heart, little bird?” Sandor leaned forward, careful not to displace his bathwater onto the woman below him as she snatched his towel off the bar over the tub and folded it. He wrapped his hand around Sansa's neck gently, earning a puzzled look from his reticent guest as he tucked the makeshift pillow beneath her head. He settled back down into the water with a labored sigh, reaching to let his fingers drift over the freckled constellations that mapped her face.

“Never that, Sandor,” Sansa said more into his hand than to him, clutching him to her by the wrist. He leaned forward, letting her hold his arm out, resting his puckered cheek against his knee. “But there is something I need to tell you. Something I should have told you a while ago as it might change everything.”

Her eyes were dry, which would have been a surprise to him if she hadn’t looked like she cried an ocean of tears while he was in the barn. She was just the shell of the exuberant and carefree girl that had become a better reality all these days spent together than the lifetime of his dreams ever could be. He let his thumb drag over the darkened circles below her eyes, bracing himself for the unwelcome news she seemed poised to deliver. He felt his heart hammering fiercely in his chest, his thigh throbbing in time with his frantic pulse. His mouth had gone bone dry, the anticipation seeming to stretch the silence between them.

“I may have to go away for a few months,” Sansa muttered finally, causing his stomach to plummet.

_So much for not breaking my godsdamned heart._

“Oh?” Was all Sandor found he was able to muster, his hand dropping from her face as he tried to wrap his mind around the unspoken implications of her confession.

“Kevan Lannister said that if Harry didn’t agree to my divorce terms, then I would have to go to Reno to basically force his hand,” Sansa explained, her blue eyes finally finding his as she leaned closer to him, rising up on her knees. Her hands were suddenly clutching his in the water as she rubbed soothing circles against the pads of his palms. “He said I’d have to be there for six weeks to establish residency and much as I’d like for you to come with me—”

“You know I can’t.” Sandor finished for her, sourly. The reality was less traumatic than the worst-case scenario drafted by his mind, but it was hollowing all the same. He resented the farm, the shop, all the fucking tethers that kept him firmly rooted in Cold Spring. The thought of Sansa alone in a far-off city made his heart break, though he knew he couldn’t resent her for going. The cracks allowed fear to seep in, the fear she had successfully kept at bay for him with every kiss she eagerly returned and every moment spent trembling beneath his touch. All of that had fortified him more than he had realized and suddenly felt weakened by the threat of distance. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

_When are you leaving me?_

“At first, I was hopeful it wouldn’t come to that and then I was afraid that it would.” Her little hands had left his, clenched around the rim of the tub as if to ground herself. “I have a meeting with Kevan tomorrow to figure out the next step.”

“And what are you supposed to do in Reno for six fucking weeks?” Sandor raised his head to look her in the eyes and couldn’t help but let a bit of his knee-jerk anger rise to the surface. She had known for a month and didn’t tell him, letting him fall deeper in love with her, letting him stitch her into every pattern of his existence. Losing her now, after knowing how truly sweet it was to have her, would destroy him. Renewed sadness clouded her watery eyes and he took a deep breath as he clutched her shoulders, bringing his face to hers. “Where will you live, little bird? What will you do for money?”

_Who will take care of you?_

“Kevan seems to think I have the legs to be a great cocktail waitress.” Sansa was attempting a joke, but the thought of that sweaty pig eye-fucking his girl made him see red.

“I don’t want you going to see that prick alone anymore,” Sandor bit out, perhaps a bit more harshly than he should have. “I’ll call Olenna or I’ll fucking keep him in line, but I don’t want you alone with him again and I certainly don’t want you working as a godsdamned cocktail waitress.” He softened a bit, relaxing the grip on her arms as he pulled her into a kiss. “I can help you a bit, but I don’t know that I can offset everything for you.”

Before he could react, she was peppering him with kisses between staccato bursts of tears and jumbled words, of which he heard only _good man_ and _trust fund_ as her mouth claimed every bit of his face she could reach. She was wild and willfully ignoring his pleas for air. Finally, he was able to push her back at arm’s length, smiling at the look of relief that colored her features.

“Gods, woman, are you trying to drown me?” Sandor said with a soft chuckle. He smoothed the hair back from her face, dampened at the ends from being dragged through his bathwater. “Now, take a deep breath and tell me again whatever nonsense you were babbling at me a minute ago.” He kissed her softly, smiling kindly at her as she tried to right herself again. No one had ever worked themselves into an emotional state seeking his approval before, and it only endeared her to him that much more.

“You’re a g-good man, Sandor,” she repeated, her words growing less and less shaky as she gained momentum. “Better than I deserve.” She returned his kisses slowly, now propped up on the edge of the tube where she was more or less eye level with him as she pulled back. “You deserve so much more than the broken little mess I am, Sandor. There’s so much I can’t give you.”

“What are you on about?” He asked between tenderly planted kisses along her neck, his hands moving to undo the sash about her waist, tempted to drag her into the bath with him now that he’d all but soaked through her dress with his wet hands.

“Sandor, I don’t want anything to change if I have to leave you,” she said quietly, hardly a whisper as she stilled his hands. “I want to be done with Harry, more than anything, but not if it could mean losing you.”

“Why would anything change?” He asked with his lips against her collarbone, his hands parting the blue dress that came apart so easily once he’d tugged the stubborn knot loose. “We’ll get to write letters again and we have the phone now. And maybe I’ll make a trip out there. I’ve always wanted to see the desert.”

“You mean that?” Sansa rolled her shoulders back, letting the dress fall behind her to the floor, her hands drifting through his hair as his mouth trailed down the soft skin of her belly.

“If you think I’m going to give you up because you need to go away for a while, you’re mad, Sansa.” He peered up at her, her baleful eyes wide and vulnerable. He took a deep breath, knowing all too well what it felt like to need validation, a promise of things to come. Sandor wrapped his hands around her waist, a bit surprised at how his fingers nearly touched as he braced her there. “I love you and I’d like to marry you one day. I promise I’ll ask in a more romantic way when the time comes, but if it helps, you should know that I don’t take what has happened between us lightly.”

Sansa sucked in a shuddering breath, tucking her lip between her teeth as she fought back the fresh crop of tears rushing to her eyes. Sandor planted a kiss on her thigh, just below the lacey edge of her small clothes, before resting his ruined cheek upon her soft skin. He cupped water over her calves, wicking the rivulets away as the same hand came down again. He would miss her, gods, but he would miss her, and every day would hurt a little more than the last. He knew he would hate wondering, worrying, letting insecurity gnaw at him if she wasn’t as quick in responding to his letters or calls as he would like. He would make the most of every moment, of every night and day he was lucky to have her.

When she finally spoke again, it was faint and nearly inaudible against the idle sloshing of water as he washed her delicate feet. “What if I can never give you children?”

Sandor’s gaze snapped up to hers, struck by the pain her simple statement carried, the words ringing in his ears. It wasn’t because he had desperately wanted to start a family. If he were honest, he hadn’t given it much thought. No, her pain was so palpable because he knew well what persistent aching and feelings of inadequacy did to a person. Somewhere in their intimate nights and routine days, her pain had become his.

And then he thought of the orphans that haunted his dreams of France.

“Sansa, I would gladly—and selfishly—grow old with you and you alone,” Sandor said, wrapping his arms around her as he hoisted her from the tub, a hand splayed between her shoulder blades. He left puddle-shaped footprints trailing down the hallway to the room he no longer thought of as just his. “I would also adopt an entire orphanage if it made you happy.”

“You don’t mean that,” came her muffled reply into his shoulder. She was clutching to him, much the way a child might be carried to bed after falling asleep after a ride in the car. He peeled back the blankets and slid carefully between them, laying her to rest on the pillow of his bicep. “You might say you mean that now, but what about when you wake up one day and realize something is missing and that it was all my fault?”

“Knock that shit off right now,” he said as gently as he could manage. “I don’t give a fuck about kids. Only that you want them, and that I want you to be happy.”

“Sandor,” Sansa uttered like a protest, shaking her head into the pillow.

He pulled her hair back from where it covered her face, pressing his nose against her cheek. “I mean it,” he whispered as he drew her closer, his embrace likely too tight to be comfortable, but she didn’t fuss. “Besides, I’m only in it for that trust fund of yours.” That earned him a playful smack on the chest and the biggest smile he’d seen on her face in a day. “Any other riches you want to disclose, little bird? Now that I know you haven’t needed me a single moment since we’ve been together.”

“You know that isn’t true,” Sansa replied, seeming a bit saddened by his admission. Truthfully, he found it awfully funny that the damsel he had been so desperate to save from distress had been a princess all along. “But I do own half of my father’s house in the Adirondacks.”

He kissed her soundly, pressing her nearly naked form flush against him. Any other time, he’d be desperate to have her, but he found the way she settled into a deep sleep in his arms far more satisfying, his own slumber claiming him soon after.

 

 

Sandor was reluctant to leave her side when morning came, lingering so long she convinced him to leave his farm work to her in exchange for a few more moments to savor together. He made love to her slowly, almost lazily, relishing every taste of her morning skin, swallowing every impassioned cry that fell from her lips. Rather than sating him, their coupling merely made him more reluctant to pull on his clothes and drive into town.

Gendry was already facing their long day, his gangly elbows crossed atop the display case as he chatted up a short-haired brunette in a long black sweater and flared eyeliner. Sandor felt the bittersweet fog he had been in since he and Sansa returned to the farm lift a bit at the sight. He cocked his good brow at Gendry as he greeted his employee and the girl standing at the counter, her slender hands practically gripping Gendry’s arms as she stood on her toes to get closer to the boy. When Sandor caught the girl’s own grey gaze, something like odd curiosity brightened her eyes, an inquisitive smile turning the corners of her mouth.

Sandor donned his apron and scabbard, turning away from the obvious flirtation transpiring mere feet away with a smile.

“Hey, boss, sorry I’m not further ahead. I… uh…“ Gendry broke off to shoot the lanky girl clad all in black a crooked, goofy smile. “I just met this girl at the bar the other night and, well, I never thought she’d actually come see me here.”

“Hey,” Sandor grinned knowingly, holding his hands up in mock defense. “I’m late because I was putting in some time with my own girl,” Sandor whispered, undeniably pleased to have a friend to confide in with a wink and a nudge.

“She’s real curious about all this,” Gendry whispered to Sandor with a smile, trying to sneak a glance at the girl who had fixed her gaze fiercely upon the chatty men, motioning to the primals he had lugged out from the cooler. “She asked if she could stay and watch.” Gendry’s tone was incredulous as though he had never even considered a girl ever being interested in their trade. Sandor barked out a laugh, as quiet as his booming tone would allow.

“Let her stay, you damned fool.” He shook his head as he took his position on the other side of the table, using the flattened tip of his blade to begin unrolling the beef leg along the delicate silver skin border separating sirloin and round, eye and tip. “I doubt she’s half as interested in these carcasses as she is in you.”

The flush that colored Gendry’s cheeks made Sandor chuckle again, shaking his head as he refocused his attention on the project in front of him, giving the boy a nod to move out. Usually, Gendry’s willful ignorance of his own good looks would usually annoy Sandor, even tempt him to sink his steel in the boy for the simple offense of being whole but, seeing him a mush-brained moron over a pretty girl was just too rich. It felt good to be happy and for Gendry to be happy, too.

_I’m turning into a bloody fool myself_.

As Gendry gave his girl a rushed and fumbling introduction to Clegane’s Meats, Sandor couldn’t help but notice the girl openly staring at him rather than paying attention to her host. Her look wasn’t one of disgust, or lust, or even naked curiosity. If he wasn’t completely losing his mind, he’d say the girl was sizing him up, weighing him against some known quantity in her mind. If they had met before, he was hard pressed to place her, so he did his best to ignore the way she was looking at him.

“And this is my boss, Sandor,” Gendry said, clapping Sandor on the shoulder, immediately pulling his hand away as if he suddenly questioned touching another man while this cute girl was next to him. “Sandor, this is—”

“Arry,” the girl offered with a smirk, rocking forward on the toes of her battered black boots.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hands down, one of the most fun chapters to write. Hope y'all enjoy and I'll see you Monday!
> 
> Permanent thanks to ToodleOo for her invaluable insight :)

Olenna had been rather amenable when Sansa called to ask her to lunch and outright delighted when she suggested the woman visit Kevan Lannister with her. The old woman’s shrill cackle sounded almost _excited_ at the prospect of putting the stout man in his place, and Sansa couldn’t help but giggle in response. They met at Coleman’s lunch counter shortly after noon, both impeccably dressed in their respective styles. Olenna embodied everything women of the roaring ‘20s aspired to, with her close-cropped curls and drop-waist dresses. Sansa, on the other hand, was ever the spitting image of her mother in cap-sleeve shirt dresses and kitten heels.  
  
Sansa found herself wishing she were brave enough to go around in slacks all the time, like the girls several years younger than she. There was a brunette Sansa had spied several times around town in the last week, although never close enough to see whose sister had transformed seemingly overnight. Sansa felt a bit jealous at the free-spirited way the girl hurried about town all in black, looking like a modern-day Mata Hari.

Sansa sighed, turning her attention back to the woman before her.  
  
“It’s a pity we don’t have time for you to change into something more appropriate,” Olenna remarked as if wading through Sansa’s own thoughts. “You’re giving the old pervert exactly what he wants.”

Sansa looked down at her attire with a frown, rather fond of the patterned wrap dress she chose that morning. After Sandor tore the buttons from several other garments, Sansa had taken to wearing more of her simple, crossover dresses. He was less impatient with the softly knotted belts than he was with the tiny buttons made even more impossible by his thick fingers. But, now that Olenna mentioned it, her outfit did feel a bit more revealing than normal. Self-consciously, Sansa tightened her camel hair jacket around her shoulders, chastising herself for such an oversight.  
  
“I hadn’t considered that,” Sansa admitted rather dryly, turning her attention back to the warm apple pie before her. “Though, I suppose that was what prompted your coming along in the first place.”  
  
“Well, surely we can enjoy each other’s company socially as well, Sansa,” Olenna said, shaking her head as she squeezed the lifeblood from the lemon wedge between her fingers. “You certainly look quite well today. It seems our friend is taking good care of you. You’re positively radiant.”  
  
Sansa grinned and dabbed her mouth with the corner of her napkin, not denying that the insinuation held some merit. Sansa didn’t know the last time she felt as good as she did that morning. They had shared weeks of bliss as they grew closer and saw each other’s inner workings. He hadn’t been mad about Reno—more sad really—but she felt tons lighter as she moved about her world having told him.  
  
“Sandor’s been very good to me,” Sansa said with an arch of her brows, earning a deep chuckle from the woman across from her.  
  
"Isn't it such a delight to learn that all men are _not_ created equal?" Olenna had leaned in to quietly whisper that truth, but it still made Sansa blush and gasp, shocked at how bold her friend was being in the diner.  
  
"Olenna!" Sansa chided, spinning her head to see if anyone had heard, though the delighted smile on her lips betrayed her concern.  
  
"Oh please, Sansa! I may be an old woman, but that simply means I've had many more years to take many more men to bed than you," Olenna teased with a smirk as Sansa nearly choked on her iced tea. "Well, no need to go into a fit, my dear!"  
  
"Perhaps you and Sandor are far more alike than I ever imagined," Sansa replied with a chuckle, correcting her sputtering with a more controlled sip. "Always looking for the easiest way to make me blush."  
  
Olenna merely gave Sansa's hand a pat as she grinned into her tea.  
  
Soon, the ladies made their way down the busy sidewalk to Front Street, Sansa holding the door open for her elderly companion. They waited in the small holding area for a while, and Sansa did everything possible to avoid the penetrating gaze of Kevan Lannister's secretary. As Sansa leaned past Olenna to snatch a magazine off the coffee table, she felt the bony prick of the old woman's finger sharp against her neck. Sansa’s forehead scrunched with pain and puzzlement, Sansa pressed her palm against the spot and raised her head to meet Olenna’s disapproving gaze.  
  
"What was that for?" Sansa hissed, low enough that Lannister's girl had to visibly strain to eavesdrop on the women.  
  
"Evidence, girl," Olenna whispered right back, pressing a compact into Sansa's hand. "Best not to bring all that when you meet your _divorce_ lawyer."  
  
Sansa opened the silver clamshell, making as though she were about to powder her nose, swiping the little sponge down the nape of her neck where the mark of Sandor's canine tooth had left a little reddish-brown spot. A _love bite_. She mouthed her thanks to Olenna as she passed the compact back to the old woman just as the large oaken doors opened and Kevan waved them in, clearly perplexed to see Olenna stand up and trail his client.  
  
"Didn't realize I had you on the books today, Miss Tyrell." Kevan boomed, feigning good humor. "Is it possible we've crossed a wire or two?"  
  
"I may be old, Kevan, but I'm still a sprightly thing," Olenna retorted, slipping her hand through Sansa's arm as they made their way to his office. "I'm simply here to accompany my friend, Sansa."  
  
Sansa smiled at Kevan, covering Olenna's hand with hers as they waited for him to clear the doorway for them to pass. Begrudgingly, Kevan Lannister stepped aside, waving the ladies through with a shake of his head.  
  
Sansa helped ease Olenna into one of the well-worn chairs, becoming very much aware that Kevan was currently lugging in a third.

The one Sansa was about to turn to was already occupied.  
  
"Hello, Red."  
  
Harry looked smug as ever, dressed in that tweed suit she favored so much on him. He bore no mark from his run-in with Sandor—a pity—and his grin was as smarmy and self-serving as ever. Sansa was suddenly very grateful she had listened to Sandor's advice and brought Olenna along.  
  
"Harry," Sansa offered, icily, “surely, you remember Olenna.” 

“Of course I do,” Harry gave her that dimpled and boyish smile that belied the ugliness that resided in his heart. “Though I thought for sure they’d kick you out of the Junior League, what with the recent changes to your lifestyle, Red.” Harry gave her a wink that made her stomach roll.

Sansa scowled. “You know my name, Harry. Perhaps now is a good time to begin using it.” She ignored the way Harry was grinding his teeth, a tell he’d developed for his anger over their years together. She turned her attention back to Kevan who looked as though dragging in the extra chair for Sansa had been the most taxing thing he’d done in years. “Why is he here?”

“Because he’s still your husband, Sansa,” Kevan began. “And because he asked nicely.”

Olenna squeezed Sansa’s hand tightly as if to quell the rage boiling over in the girl. Sansa took a deep breath before she schooled a sickly-sweet smile on her face and turned back into the well-bred young woman she was raised to be. 

“Well, then, let’s get divorced, shall we?” Sansa couldn’t help the bitter that edged the sweetness from her tone. Harry laughed unkindly, garnering a smirk from the fat man behind the desk, as though the two were in on some joke Sansa wasn’t privy to. “I am completely serious, gentleman. If there are no objections, I’d like to be done with my philandering  _husband,_  and if there are objections, I believe I have a trip to Reno to plan.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit rash?” Kevan asked, as though he were soothing a petulant child. “And besides, you’re not above reproach here, Sansa.”

 Sansa frowned. “That isn’t—“

Olenna raised a hand, cutting Sansa off before she could make an admission or simply worsen the odds against her in that musty office. Whatever instinct made Sandor insist on her taking the widow, Sansa was grateful for. 

“I think the point Miss Stark is trying to make is that she and her soon to be ex-husband both seem to be ready to move on with their lives, so why not be adults and just make it easy on one another. Surely, Sansa’s demands are not so outrageous?”

Olenna knew exactly what Sansa’s demands were and exactly how meager they were in the grand scheme of a divorce. She had even advocated that the young woman take more than just the car and a separation, but that had been a lost battle. Now, as Sansa watched the two men silently exchanging secretive looks, she felt as though perhaps she _should_ wring every last cent from Harold Hardyng. 

“Well, I’ve given this whole mess a lot of thought over the past month, and...” Harry began, feigning a pensive sigh, fixing his puppy dog eyes on her. “I think it’s high time you came home, Red.”

Sansa’s knuckles were white against the arm rails of the chair as she bit back the angry tirade welling up inside of her. Olenna gave her a gentle pat, but Sansa could even sense the anger radiating from the old woman and Sansa was never so grateful when she decided to go first. 

“And I suppose Miss Royce will just take up the guest room then?” Olenna asked.

 If Sansa thought ice sometimes flowed through her veins, she apparently didn’t know from cold. Olenna was of an age where she could take or leave social niceties and there was little to be done to tarnish her reputation. She was philanthropic and socially motivated and thus stood to lose little for calling out Harold Hardyng, just a roach under the toe of her shoe.

“I’m sure Sansa wouldn’t mind shouldering the  _domestic_   _weight_  with another young woman, right, Sansa?” Sansa sat stunned, watching as Harry’s face grew a deeper shade of crimson, and she could practically hear the grinding of his teeth from where she sat. “I hear from my granddaughter—she lives down in Reno since her last divorce—that polyamory is becoming quite popular amongst some of the younger beatnik types.”

“Olenna,” Kevan huffed with an exaggerated eye roll. “As amusing as your little anecdote is, we’re talking about a _true_ marriage here. One that Mr. Hardyng has vowed to honor.”

Sansa couldn’t help the snort of laughter that erupted from her. “Pardon my outburst, but I haven’t heard anything that funny in months,” she said ruefully, clearly the only one taken by the irony of the situation. “If it’s all the same to everyone here, I’d say that Harry had his chance to uphold those vows the first go ‘round and I have little faith he’ll ever be able to do it. For me or any other woman.”

Sansa reached down to take her purse, feeling quite through with the ambush masquerading as meeting, tapping Olenna’s elbow, indicating for her to follow. 

“We aren’t finished yet, Sansa,” Kevan said, shuffling papers around into no semblance of order, merely a distraction for his idle hands as the climate in his office seemed to be turning palpably hostile.  “I think it may be best if you take your leave now, Harry."

"But we've barely had a chance to work this out!" Harry practically whined, looking like a sad little boy who couldn't handle a skinned knee. Harry always got his way. 

"Doesn't seem to be anything to work out, son," Kevan offered with a tight smile. Harry looked impetuously from Sansa to Kevan and back again, before rising with a huff, letting the door slam loudly behind him. Sansa couldn’t help but smile as she heard him grumbling all the way down the hall. "Well, that went fantastically."

"Well, perhaps a trap wasn't the best approach," Olenna said firmly, appraising Sansa from the corner of her eye. "Maybe now that the games are through you can see to the wishes of your client who scheduled this meeting and let her get on with her life."

"Yes, Olenna,” Lannister said, his thinning patience obvious. “That seems to be the plan."

Kevan fished through the bottom drawer of his desk, producing a thick manila envelope with a smaller, white envelope attached to the top. The smaller appeared to be open already, the folded papers sliding out as he passed the heavy parcel into Sansa's waiting hands. 

"What's this?" Sansa turned her attention to the handwritten letter, the envelope's return address marked simply  _Horseface._ She had always felt bad for giving her sister that nickname, one that caught on once Jeyne Poole started spreading it around their school.Sansa lost focus on the words coming from Kevan's mouth as she eagerly unfolded the papers, her sister's voice speaking clear as a bell in her mind as she scanned the short missive. "Where did this come from?"

If she had interrupted Kevan, she hardly cared. It had been years since any word had come from Arya. 

"Came to your house. Harry dropped it off." Lannister explained with a shrug as if to say  _big fucking deal_. Sansa looked at the postmark and scowled at the man before her.  _Three weeks ago_. He huffed his annoyance with her again, raising his hands in defeat. “Don’t have a forwarding address, so…”

“Funny how everyone seems to know where I am and what I’m doing when it comes time to drag my name through the mud,” Sansa spit out, rising with her packet and her purse. “But when I get a letter from my estranged sister, everyone acts as though I’ve disappeared into the ether.”

“Forgive me for not making assumptions, Sansa,” he waved dismissively at her, leaning back in the chair that groaned in protest of his weight. “But I’ve done my part. You have everything you need there to get started on getting yourself a divorce.”

_If you had done your part, I wouldn’t have to go to Reno._

“Thank you so much for all that you’ve done,” Sansa smiled through her sarcasm, helping Olenna to her feet. “Truly.”

The women made their way quickly down the hall, not even acknowledging the gossipy girl behind the front desk as she quickly rose to see them off. When they made it out onto the sidewalk where Sansa took a deep breath for what felt like the first time in hours. She slipped the heavy packet under her arm before snaking her other around Olenna’s narrow shoulders. The old woman let out a squeal of surprise as Sansa squeezed her, perhaps a bit too hard. 

“Well, don’t go strangling me now. It seems you may need me more than ever.” Sansa pulled away, giving the old widow a firm kiss on her powdered, papery cheek. She smelled like a familiar perfume or perhaps just of old memories and Sansa fought back tears. A constant battle in her new life, it would seem. “Though you held your own just fine in there.”

“I don’t think I would have survived the initial shock had you not been there with me,” Sansa said, rubbing her coral kiss off the woman’s face with the pad of her thumb. “I didn’t realize you had a granddaughter, let alone one in Reno.”

“Well, Margaery’s first husband is now… _living_ with her brother and her second husband was worse than Harry if you can believe it,” Olenna said, laughing as Sansa’s eyes grew wide. “He was a royal prick if you’ll forgive my saying so.”

“Well, good for Margaery,” Sansa replied, bringing her only friend from her old life in for a gentler hug. “You’ll put me in touch with her? Seems she would know better who to refer me to than Lannister.”

“Of course, dear,” Olenna said with a wide grin as she patted Sansa on the cheek before turning to go her own way down the block. Before she was out of sight, she turned to call back over her shoulder. “Give my love to Sandor!” She blew a kiss and the vanished into the traffic of Front Street. 

Sansa smiled as she made her way to her secret alley, retrieving the letter she had only given a cursory glance in Kevan’s office, stopping to lean against the bumper of the Edsel. The sun was warm and she shrugged off her coat, folding it neatly before stacking it with the hefty parcel atop the hood.

The letter was short and rather sparse, block printed in the squared off writing that seemed the perfect embodiment of her sister.

 

_It seems all your girlhood fantasies might come true. What would mother think? Funny how word travels, even when you don’t. Heading back toward home for a brief stay soon._

_Don’t worry, I’ll find you._

_XX_

Sansa was about to read the letter again when a vice-like hand gripped her about the arm.

She yelped in pain.

When she turned to face her assailant, she supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised to see Harry bearing down on her, but the sight of his handsome face contorted with anger was unsettling all the same. He was bracing her against the cool hood of the Edsel, bending her backward slightly as he pinned her roughly by the shoulders. He positioned his legs on either side of her, caging her in place as he smiled viciously down at her. 

“Thought we might get a chance to actually talk, once you were away from that meddling old woman,” Harry sneered, mere inches from her face.

She tried to think back on what had made him handsome to her; his sandy hair, his dimpled smile, his seemingly kind eyes. There was no trace of that man before her, only the snarling half-smile of a jilted lover. “That wasn’t a fair trick you played back there at Lannister’s, bringing a friend. Learning a few tricks from that old dog, aren’t you?”

“Harry, let me go. You’re hurting me,” Sansa winced under his piercing grasp, and something in her tone or her face made him soften. He brought his hands to cup her cheeks, a gesture that made her equally uncomfortable. “No, Harry, I mean stop touching me.”

“Oh, Red,” he sighed, bringing his mouth to hers as she desperately tried to wrench free from him. “There’s no one else like you.”

“Harry, I mean it,” she said. His tongue brushed her lip and she felt her stomach turn. “Let me go.”

Her heart was starting to pound in her chest and she could feel her vision cloud as she feebly battered against Harry. There was a time in Sansa’s life and marriage, and not too distantly in the past, either, that she would have been delighted for him to show any kind of passion for her. Now, she wished that any amount of screaming would summon the only man she wanted to save her from her husband.

Reluctant to cause a scene since they were only a few yards off the busy street as it was, Sansa tried to pry his hands away from her face with as brave a smile as she could manage. “I didn’t know you would be there. Don’t you think that was a bit of a trick?”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he said, doing his best to play the part of the remorseful husband. “You’ve been away so long, Sansa. I’ve been so lonely.”

Again, she couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled out of her mouth.

Sansa instantly wished she could take it back, learn to control herself a bit better, watching as his handsome face turned red and angry again.

He was gripping her arms, not as hard as before, but his intensity had resumed. “What happened to the girl who was so eager to marry me?” He mocked her, his mouth hovering just over her ear, a smile in his tone as she squirmed beneath his touch. “What happened to the girl who was so desperate to tame me? I’ll take you back, Red. I don’t even care that he ruined you.”

_Ruined me. Ruined_ me _?_

That earned him another laugh and her a tighter grip about her shoulders.

“You think _Sandor_ ruined me?” Sansa scoffed. Of all the things in her life that had degraded her, brought her down, or made her feel small, Sandor would never make the list. “Oh, Harry, it is fortunate you are handsome because you aren’t very bright.” Sansa twisted and wrenched in his hold, forcing him to change his tactic and pin her hands behind her on the hood, his legs clamping her still about the knees. “My mother and her opinion of what it meant to marry well, _that_ almost ruined me.” She took the time to look him dead in the eyes, to make sure the point landed. “ _You_ almost ruined me, Harry.”

Changing his approach again, Harry kept her hands locked in one of his, pinned to his chest as he let his now free arm wrap around her. She couldn’t remember any time in their relationship that he had been so determined to have her, she had given in far too easily when it came to marriage, and his intensity was nothing short of terrifying. Sansa would give anything to go back in time, to go straight inside where Sandor would keep her out of harm’s way, where she could have just as easily read Arya’s letter.

“Don’t do this, Sansa,” Harry was pleading with her now, nuzzling his face into her neck as she struggled to free herself from his embrace. “Don’t leave me. Don’t go to Reno.”

Perhaps she had just wounded his pride. Leaving Harry for a scarred man with no social pedigree to speak of was just the kind of offense he could not abide. Saltiness Sansa would understand since he still had the object of his lust to validate him otherwise. Violent desperation, like the way he was bruising her to gain a kiss she was certain neither of them wanted, that was something different.

And then she remembered how heavily she had been vetted by Harry’s guardian, Anya Waynwood. The woman had reared Harry and managed his inheritance after his parents had shipped him to the states when the first rumbles of Fascism began to make waves in Central Europe in the mid-‘30s. His parents had perished in the early phases of the war, leaving their son to be raised by his cold and distant aunt. Instead of shaping him into a mindful and grateful citizen, the circumstances of his youth made him entitled and opportunistic. Anya was from an older generation and upheld different values about the institution of marriage. The contract she had with her ward was strictly managed by the fleet of attorneys in the dowager’s employ. One stipulation of Harry’s inheritance allotted him a stipend for every son he fathered in marriage, a serious point of contention between him and Sansa in their short, loveless union 

Another stipulation that stood out in Sansa’s mind as she struggled against her husband in the small lot behind Sandor’s shop was the penalty of divorce.

Harry’s intent became plain then, his desperate behavior could only mean one thing in Sansa’s mind.

“You’re being disinherited,” she realized with a small smile. Harry stiffened immediately.  “Anya found out I left you and she is threatening to disinherit you if we divorce.” She couldn’t help but laugh at him again, only fueling his rage more. “You thought I’d be too stupid to see through you,” Sansa said, feeling his grip tighten as she rose to her fullest, proudest form. “You thought I’d just be so grateful to have you back.”

“That isn’t it, Sansa,” Harry refused fiercely. “I love you and I want my wife back.”

“Did you forget that _I_ left _you_ , Harry?”

“Don’t mock me, _Red_ ,” he sneered, pushing her against her car again with a loud thud.

Sansa caught a flash of movement in her periphery as her lower back landed hard against the nose of her hood, silently praying that it was Sandor come to help her. Before Harry could say whatever vapid insult or thought was forming on his tongue, Sansa spied the slight form of the brunette she’d watched around town moving in their direction.

The girl threw a punch and Sansa watched as Harry turned at the exact wrong moment

The slip of a girl connected with the side of Harry’s nose, rather than his intended temple. Her knuckles cracked as she turned Harry’s handsome face bloody.

“Seven Hells!” Sansa’s savior hissed, shaking her hand as if to cast off the pain.

Her husband, tormentor, and enormous life mistake crumpled to the asphalt with a groan, and Sansa heard Gendry call out a name that was almost familiar, but not quite.

“Arry, stop!”

His plea meant nothing as _Arry_ landed a solid kick to Harry’s ribs.

“Arry?” Sansa asked aloud as she regained her composure and forced her vision to focus on her rescuers.

“Your crazy bitch of a sister!” Harry screeched, bringing his hand to the bridge of his nose to stymie the flow of blood painting his face.

Arry reared back and kicked Harry in nearly the same spot as before. Something gave beneath the force of her kick this time, knocking the wind from her husband.

“Sansa, what the fuck is going on?” A _rry_ asked. The face that appeared before hers, a mere breath separating them, was clouded with concern and as familiar to her as her own reflection. “Why were you back with _him_?”

“Arya?” Sansa asked, though she knew full well it was her sister before her, older and changed, but her sister nonetheless. Tears pricked Sansa’s eyes and she threw her arms around the younger girl’s shoulders, relieved when Arya’s arms enveloped her with equal intensity. Sansa wasn’t exactly paying attention to Gendry, now standing awkwardly off to the side, still holding the bag of trash that must have brought him out to the alley in the first place. And then the strange name he had called her sister echoed in her ears and Sansa pulled back, her face scrunched and perplexed. “What are you doing here? I mean, at Sandor’s, with Gendry. I just got your letter. Harry had kept it from me until today.”

“San, calm down,” Arya said softly, looking at the red marks on Sansa’s arms that would surely blossom to bruises by night, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I told you I’d find you.”

“How do you know Gendry?” Sansa asked, her eyes flitting back to Sandor’s employee who was busy keeping tabs on her husband, now groaning and beginning to rise.

“Keep him on the fucking ground until we get out of here, Gendry,” Arya ordered, confirmed by a solemn nod of the very confused man’s head. “I met him at the bar. He mentioned he was minding the farm of his big, scarred boss while he was out of town with his pretty, redheaded girlfriend for the weekend.” Arya chuckled, giving her sister a proud smile as she pressed her forehead to Sansa’s. “You always did love the butcher’s boy.”

Sansa giggled uncontrollably, feeling her entire emotional range at once, as the two girls watched Harold Hardyng whimper and writhe.

“I need to go lock up,” Gendry said, his nervous gaze flitting from Harry to the girls.

“Where’s Sandor?” Sansa asked, her eyes scanning the lot for the familiar red truck. “Did he leave?”

Gendry’s lip twitched into a reluctant smile as he looked between the sisters. He fished his keys from his pocket, calling over his shoulder as he slipped through the back door. “He went back to the farm.”

“He wanted to surprise you,” Arya said softly, smiling broadly as she moved to Harry’s side. She placed a firm hand on his shoulder when he shakily tried to rise from the ground. “He loves you,” her sister said in a teasing tone as she pinned Harry roughly between the legs with her boot. “Brought home loads of fancy stuff and said he always makes you dinner.”

“He does,” Sansa affirmed with a smile, watching with concern as Harry began to look more lucid and angry. “Arya, I think we need to call someone.”

“No fucking way,” Arya said, shifting her weight from heel to toe, eliciting a dark cry of pain from her captive. “He won’t tell anyone that a _girl_ kicked his ass. And besides, Gendry said he gets in fights at Bronn’s bar all the time.” Arya bent down close to Harry’s blood-drenched face and smirked. “You got into one last night, didn’t you? You didn’t even notice I was there.” Arya let out a cackle as she pulled his slumped head back by his hair. “Oh, but I saw you groping that man’s wife. You almost got all this and then some.”

“Fuck you, you bitch,” Harry spat, droplets of blood disappearing into the black fabric of Arya’s sweater and freckling her pale skin. Her sister was about to cock her fist again when Gendry re-emerged, shaking his head as he locked the door.

“Don’t kill him, Arry!” Gendry was all but stomping his foot now. “Sandor will be really pissed if you kill Miss Stark’s husband in his alley.”

Arya scowled, letting Harry’s head rock backward against the wall.

_He wouldn’t be_ that _mad_ , Sansa mused, hiding her smile behind her hand.

“I will kill him if he ever touches my sister again,” Arya said, more to Harry than Gendry.

Sansa rose from the hood of her car with a wince. She opened the door to the Edsel and was about to slide in when Gendry stepped to her side, gently leading her to the back door.

“Let me drive, Miss Stark,” he said guiding her into the backseat, joined by Arya on the opposite side. “You’ve had a lot to take in today, and I’m sure you’ll want to spend time with your…sister.” Sansa didn’t miss the look shared between her sister and Sandor’s apprentice. Their shared, sly smiles only made Sansa’s heart swell.

“Are we just leaving him?” Sansa asked, nodding toward Harry, as Gendry settled into the driver’s seat.

“He’ll find his way home, Sansa,” Arya said gently, pulling her sister’s head against her shoulder, running her tentative touch over the spots that had begun to bruise and ache where Harry’s fingers had dug into her skin. Sansa rubbed her cheek against the soft and well-loved fabric of Arya’s sweater. She took a deep breath in, trying to memorize the traces of vetiver that lingered on her sister’s skin. It was the same soap as their brother once used and Sansa realized that the bulky sweater was likely Robb’s as well.

Sansa burst into racking sobs as the weight of the day and the ghosts of her family finally caught up with her.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day late, but here it is!
> 
> I love you all for keeping up with this story and continuing to blow my damn mind with your encouragement! 
> 
> And of course, a thousand kisses/flowers/kittens for the lovely ToodleOo!

Sandor had been looking forward to the signature growl of the Edsel all afternoon, resolved to surprise Sansa after what he knew would likely be a trying day. When he heard _voices_ after the engine cut off, he felt a bit annoyed that he might have to share her company.

He felt the cold kiss of dread when he saw Gendry behind the wheel and Sansa sobbing into the girl called Arry’s oversized sweater. He rushed to the car, grunting when he took the bottom step wrong, cursing under his breath as Gendry tried to head him off with some explanation of events.

“What the hells is all this, then?” Sandor asked, his voice tinged with concern. his hands immediately wrapping around Sansa as he helped her out of the car. He braced her against him, her slight frame shaking as she struggled to calm her ragged breathing, and he noticed the deep purple marks on her shoulders. He hadn’t remembered clutching her there, in the delicate hollow above her heart, and knew that while it wouldn’t take a bit of effort for him to hurt her, he was more than careful not to. Much as he would hate himself for harming her, he loathed the alternative more. “Please tell me I did this.”

Sansa whimpered as his thumb brushed over the spot on her collarbone, tender like the soft flesh of a bruised apple, and he felt a swell of anger rise inside. “No, Sandor,” she acknowledged sadly, her voice husky and raw from crying. “It wasn’t you.”

“There was an incident at the shop,” Gendry offered as Sandor’s gaze scanned her companions. “Went out with the trash to find Harry with Miss Stark.”

“Her name is Sansa,” Arry huffed, “and we’re both Miss Stark, you know, so I think it best we all go by first names.”

“What’s that mean?” Sandor shot Sansa a puzzled look.

She merely quirked a weak smile through her tears. “This is my sister, Arya,” she explained as she reached to palm the brunette’s cheek. “I think she broke Harry’s nose.”

“Definitely broke it,” Arya replied, looking at the swollen knuckles of her right hand with a proud little smile. When Sansa dropped her hand from her sister’s face, Arya draped her lank arm over Gendry’s shoulder, cocking her hip against the taller boy. Her gaze went back to her hand then, her face turning into a pout. “Got his damn blood all over me.”

“What happened?” Sandor asked, pushing Sansa back slightly so he could look her over. She winced a bit as his hand capped her shoulder and he felt his grip open reflexively. He narrowed his eyes at her and she looked fit to burst into tears again. “Why were you in the alley with him?”

_Tell me so I know what to tell the sheriff when I beat Harry to death._

“Sandor, really, I’m fine,” Sansa said, but the quake in her tone gave him pause. He felt his vision darken with rage, but the feel of Sansa’s hand raking through the hair at the nape of his neck calmed him. “He surprised me at the lawyer, thank the gods I called Olenna.”

Sandor wicked away her tears as she spoke, his eyes silently scouring her.

“I was in the alley, distracted by some papers I had taken from Lannister’s, and Harry must have followed me.” She latched onto his collar with her determined little fists, lowering her tone as she met his piercing gaze. “Really, Sandor, he just scared me a bit. He was begging me to come back to him, not to divorce him.”

“I told you I would kill him, Sansa,” Sandor barked out, motioning for Gendry to give him the keys to the Edsel. “I told _Harry_ I would fucking kill him if he did anything like this again.”

“He’s being disinherited because I’m leaving him,” Sansa explained, though it hardly did anything to quell the rage he felt boiling inside him.

“I could give a shit, Sansa,” Sandor said as he stalked to where Gendry stood, hand outstretched toward him. “I see what he did to you.”

“She has some bruises on her arms,” Arya said quietly, blocking Gendry’s arm as he raised it to hand Sandor the keys, “but he didn’t get what it looked like he wanted.”

Sandor growled, and the rush of anger to his head was dizzying. He hated himself for not finishing the bastard off when he had the chance, but he knew by the way Sansa’s nails were digging into the flesh of his back that she would sooner draw blood than let him go after Harry hungry for a fight.

“Not helping!” Sansa cried. Her head swiveled around quickly and the look she shot her sister was one of practiced admonishment only siblings could enact. When she had sufficiently glared her sister silent, Sansa turned her puffy eyes back to him. “I’ll be fine, really. Just feeling especially emotional with seeing Arya again after all these years.” Her eyes were wide and bloodshot as she looked up at him once again. “Please, you can’t go after him.”

“Gods, Sansa, you don’t know what you’re asking,” Sandor replied through gritted teeth. His brow furrowed as he eased her coat from her shoulders, assessing the marks on her arms and wrists with a grimace. Of course, he had picked that day, of all days, to leave early so he could surprise her.

And then he wasn’t even there to save her.

_A lot of good I’ve done her_ , he thought regretfully. The only way to make it right was to pummel Harold Hardyng.

“I’ve grown quite fond of you, and I don’t much like the idea of writing to you on Riker’s Island for the rest of our lives,” Sansa replied weakly, though mischievously, and her soft laugh coaxed a smile from him in spite of his reigning anger. “And because whatever you are making in there smells wonderful and I am famished.”

He chuckled deeply at that, wrapping her in his arms carefully. That had been his intention, after all.

“Do I have time to wash up?” she asked into his chest.

“Since I now need to supplement for our guests,” Sandor said dryly, motioning to the pair looking expectantly behind them, “yes.” He rubbed her arms as he pressed a chaste kiss to her chapped and salty lips. She looked a mess from all the crying, but she leaned into his touch with a sigh of relief. “Why don’t you take your unruly sister with you, hmm? I can see the blood on her from here.”

Sansa nodded with a knowing smile, rising on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I love you,” she whispered against his ear.

Sandor supposed it was the chill of her breath as it coasted along his face that pricked his skin, but there was still something fragile inside him that buckled whenever she uttered those simple words. “I love you too, little bird,” Sandor said before kissing her more soundly than before, relief winning out over rage.

Arya feigned a retching sound, silenced by a gentle ribbing from Gendry, who was openly smirking. She grinned at the boy before ruffling his perfectly styled hair and bounding up the stairs.

She stopped at the step just above Sandor. He still towered over her, but she didn’t look intimidated or impressed by the size of him.

“What?” Sandor demanded in his deepest bellow, attempting to rattle the girl that had lied her way into his shop to watch him and who now had the nerve to posture at him on his own turf. “Come to spy on me at home as well?”

“I haven’t made my mind up about you yet, Clegane,” Arya said after a moment of contemplative inspection. “My approval isn’t won so easily, and since I hear you had the chance to beat her shit of a husband to a pulp and didn’t, I get the feeling you’re not nearly as tough as you want people to think.”

“Arry,” Gendry warned, striding closer to the girl’s side, nervously offering himself as a buffer. He was looking hesitantly between Sandor and Arya, clearly unsure whose ire was more fearsome.

“Seems to me your pretty sister gets the last word on me,” Sandor said with a smirk as he untangled himself from Sansa’s embrace, letting her take her sister’s hand. “Now get her into a bath and stop being a smart ass.”

“Yes, _sir_!” Arya said stoutly, offering him an exaggerated salute and Sandor groaned. “You really went for the opposite of Harry with this one, Sans.” Arya cast a glance at him over her shoulder as Sansa led her toward the door. “He’s ugly _and_ assertive.”

“Arya!” Sansa scolded, shooting Sandor an apologetic look as she tugged her sister into the house by the wide sleeve of her sweater.

“What?” Arya protested, stumbling as she was practically dragged through the clanging screen door by her sister whose strides were far longer. “I like that about him!”

“You didn’t tell me your girlfriend is Sansa’s sister!” Sandor hissed at Gendry once the girls had disappeared inside. He stalked back into the house, pushing Gendry toward the fridge once they made their way inside. “We were in the shop all morning together and I said things, private things, about the weekend to the two of you and you didn’t stop me!”

“I didn’t know!” Gendry exclaimed, a nervous smile on his lips. “All she said was that she was in town to visit family and asked if I wanted to take her home.” Seeming to realize what was not being asked of him, he began rifling through the icebox for something to supplement the lamb leg Sandor had roasted. “It’s not like I meet lots of girls, you know. I didn’t think to ask her to draw out her family tree so as not to inconvenience you.”

An awkward moment of silence stretched between them as Gendry fished a roll of butter and glass bottle of cream from the fridge and a few red-skinned potatoes from the little wooden box atop the counter.

Sandor turned his attention back to the oven, peeking in with the door opened, pleased by the how the sweet cake smelled. He had never baked before, but the pineapple cake she had made early on in her stay with him was never far from his mind. He had been tidying up one day when he found the small bit of cardstock with Sansa’s neat scrawl detailing the recipe for _Old Nan’s Pineapple Upside-down Cake_.

“What?” Sandor grumbled as he heard Gendry’s chopping slow to a stop, feeling the boy’s eyes boring into him. When he turned, he was surprised to see Gendry smiling openly _at_ him. “Something funny?”

“Just didn’t take you for a baker, is all.” Gendry shrugged, the smile not quite fading as he slid the peeled and chunked potatoes into the pot of water already at a rolling boil to Sandor’s left.

“First try,” Sandor admitted, cracking the oven door again.

“Well, first off, stop doing _that_!” Gendry reprimanded, smacking Sandor’s hand away from the oven door. “You keep opening that, you’ll let out all the heat and it won’t cook right!”

“And what do you know about all this?” Sandor did as he was told, but he turned to carve the lamb with a scowl on his face.

“I grew up in an orphanage,” Gendry shot back with practiced indifference, though Sandor could tell it wasn’t an easy truth for him. “Got assigned to the kitchens when I was old enough to reach the stove and stir a pot. Did a lot of baking when rationing hit us hard during the war.”

_Another stray_ , Sandor mused. 

“Looks alright then?” Sandor asked after a beat, nodding to the oven. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he defaulted to the common ground between them. Gendry nodded and gave him an encouraging smile, raising a brow playfully when the egg timer chimed. “And Hardyng?” Sandor stooped low to pull the cake pan from the oven. “How’d he look?”

“Like last week’s grind,” Gendry responded with a snort, turning back to the fridge, looking for another way to stretch the dinner for two into dinner for four. “Sorry Arry and me are breaking up your romantic dinner. I know you wanted to do something nice for Mi—for Sansa.”

“There are some salad fixings in there if you don’t mind,” Sandor responded. He was grateful someone was there to intervene and recognize that Sansa was in no state to get herself home. Gendry busied himself over the greens and vegetables on the table by the window while Sandor spooned the pan drippings he had reduced with stock to a sticky, earthy sauce over the lamb. “I’m sure she’s happy to see her sister and to eat at that fancy dining table she loves so much.” Sandor smiled to himself, knowing he loved the table just as much as she did, feeling as though this was what having a family might feel like. “She’s a feisty little thing, isn’t she?”

Sandor was referring to the balls on the younger Stark for attacking a grown man, but judging from the shade of red Gendry flushed, an entirely different recollection came to his mind.

Before he could pry, Sandor heard the girls as they descended the stairs, looking like long-lost friends as the whispered and giggled back and forth. As they entered the room, they broke apart, pulled to the opposite ends of the kitchen each man occupied.

He smiled as Sansa snaked her arms around his torso, her breasts pressed flush against his back. She had changed into Evelyn’s yellow, flower spotted dress and too-large blue sweater. It made him smile, seeing her in that outfit, and he wrapped his hand around hers as she pressed her palms to his heart.

“You made my nan’s cake!” Sansa looked up at him with a fondness that made him forget she had come home a trembling mess. He felt his pride swell as she nuzzled against his back, her slender finger reaching out to test the surface. He scoffed and playfully swatted her away. She’d have done the same. “Don’t you huff at me like that. The beauty of an upside-down cake is getting to sneak a taste before anyone’s the wiser.”

“Don’t test me, woman. My blood’s still up,” he cautioned after she dipped her finger into the cake, offering the dainty digit for him to taste. Sansa was biting her lip and arching her brow at him playfully and as long as she was looking at him like that, she could do as she damn well pleased. He figured Gendry and Arya were busy flirting with one another, so Sandor disappeared her finger between his lips, and her breath caught as he scraped his teeth against her skin. He smiled smugly as her mouth hung open a bit, _waiting_. “Easy, little bird.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gendry hard at work julienning carrots as Arya dipped her long—presumably unwashed—fingers into the wide, teak bowl. She was eating half of whatever Gendry cut and seemed aware that she was irking the poor boy. Arya feigned innocence every time he looked up at her, annoyed, as though she were testing the boy’s patience with her before he would lose his cool. He never did, but Arya’s surprised cry turned everyone’s attention as the girl’s face contorted into something akin to embarrassment as Gendry dropped the knife with a clatter and kissed her soundly.

“I like you, alright?” Gendry said, grinning. “Now, knock it off before one of us loses a finger.”

Arya’s stunned silence was the only win he needed.

“Come on, _Arry_ , let’s set the table,” Sansa called to her sister as she raised up on her toes to press a kiss to the base of Sandor’s neck, just above where the collar of his shirt ended and the edges of his scars began. Her hand drifted lazily down his back as she made to leave his side, his eyes sliding closed as his heart beat just a tick faster.

_Is this is what it’s like to have a family?_

The girls were giggling and carrying on as they set the table, or rather, Arya put things on the table and Sansa fixed them. As he and Gendry finished plating everything up, Sandor heard Arya let out a cry of victory as she popped up from rifling through some forgotten cabinet, producing two very dusty bottles of red wine.  “Do you mind?” Sansa asked him, nodding toward her sister who was already peeling the foil off one of the bottles. Sansa was examining the other, a nervous smile on her lips. “Not yet, Arya. These are very fine and expensive bottles.”

“Didn’t expect you to be a man with a taste for fine vintages,” Arya mocked, ignoring Sansa’s attempt to still her hand, freeing the cork with a deep pop. “Sansa, if there was ever a cause for celebration, surely my triumphant and unexpected return home ranks.”

Sandor could think of a few other occasions that would merit celebration, not one of them involving Arya, and he wouldn’t want to think of his father during any of them.

“Pour ‘em,” Sandor said as he offloaded the armful of plates he’d carried from the kitchen. “Had no idea they were even there.”

“But they’re Châteauneuf-du-Pape. ’32 and ’44!” Sansa protested, her tone rising, incredulous at how capricious everyone but her seemed to be acting. She dropped into the chair behind her as Arya took a swig straight from the bottle after leaving generous, and uneven pours at every setting.

“Tastes like red,” Arya commented as she wrinkled her nose, much to her sister’s chagrin and Sandor’s delight.

 The four of them filled in around Sansa’s table, talking well past cleaning their plates and rising for second-helpings left in the kitchen. Sansa drilled Arya about the time they had spent apart, and Sandor had been surprised to learn how much of their estrangement had been due to Sansa’s marriage to Harry. She talked at length about her life in California, about the farms she worked on while traveling with other itinerant beatniks along the Mexican border. At two and twenty, Arya Stark had lived more and seen more than her sister. Sandor watched Sansa hanging off every word as her sister described life in the sleepy border towns, driven by the practical needs of the laborers that lived on either side of the _alambre_.

 “Surely, you aren’t being serious,” Sansa said rolling her eyes when the topic’s of Arya’s current employment was raised. She dismissed the idea of her sister working in a burlesque club with a haughty laugh and Arya looked a bit wounded. Sandor smirked as his tipsy lover began backpedaling furiously. “Not because you aren’t beautiful, but because it’s no place for a lady!”

“Oh, there are plenty of ladies there!” Arya rebuked, inciting deep chuckles from both he and Gendry. Sansa only glared at him sideways, looking adorably petulant as he imagined her growing jealous at the thought of him seeing scantily clad dancers. “Relax, Sansa, I’m just a lowly bar back, like Gendry here.”

“I’ll have you know I’m the best Bronn’s got over there,” Gendry remarked defensively, giving Arya’s cropped tresses a slight tug. She beamed at him, the two grinning like a bunch of fools, and Sandor watched Sansa’s smile grow as she looked fondly between her sister and the only boy she’d likely ever seen Arya with.

“Really, I’m just working there so I can go to Berkeley,” Arya followed up more seriously, reaching her hand across the table to take Sansa’s. “I got accepted to the Fall term, so I’m putting down roots until then so I can save up some money.”

“Well, that sounds lovely.” Sansa was smiling sadly, likely because her sister’s plans still seemed to involve living across the country, but she didn’t push the matter. Sandor reached below the table, out of sight, and took Sansa’s tightly balled fist in his. She let out a deep breath as he rubbed the back of her hand until her little talons unfurled and she gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

They sat at the little table until the first bottle of wine was empty and they decided to spread out in the living room. Arya rifled through their combined record collection, smiling as she put on an old Artie Shaw album that had been one of Sandor’s favorites what seemed like a lifetime ago. They ate the cake Sandor made, which he was pleased to note was just as delicious as Sansa’s, and drank port while they filled years of silence with humor and reminiscing.

Sometime after the second bottle and after Arya had scavenged the last bit of sherry or some other liqueur she had found lying around, Gendry and Arya had taken to dancing around the living room. Poorly, if Sandor were honest. Sansa had been giddy and blissfully drunk, the kind of disconnect she’d needed after the trying day, and he had welcomed her into his lap with warm kisses and open arms. He’d never felt so complete before, so a part of something that was both effortless and rewarding. He and Sansa hooted at the hodgepodge steps and moves Arya and Gendry called dancing. After Gendry fell atop Arya while trying to catch her, they called it quits as they cracked up in a heap on the floor. Soon after Gendry climbed atop the sofa, he was dead asleep with his mouth hanging open.

Sansa had gone silent and Sandor was not surprised to see her eyes closed, gently removing the glass from her hand as her head lolled against his shoulder. Alone with the younger girl, Sandor found he had little to say to the grey-eyed Stark that was staring at him intently.

“You love her,” Arya said matter-of-factly, leaning her head against the seat of the sofa as she looked at him.

“Yes,” he replied, smiling as Sansa let out a gentle snore against his neck, “I do.”  
  
“Why do you love her?" Arya asked, as though it were a casual question, not an investigation into his inner workings. She arched her brows at him expectantly, demanding an answer, and Sandor merely rolled his eyes with a groan.  
  
"Why should I tell you anything?"  
  
Arya smirked at that, and Sandor couldn't help but wonder if they shared some common link somewhere along the way. Her eyes felt so much like his own and he saw a well of pain and anger that had colored his own youth. The main difference between them was that Arya was much better at hiding her feelings from the world. From everything she said, every anecdote she relayed, Sandor sensed she could find satisfaction in every experience life had to offer. Arya leaned forward, reaching for the sweater she had abandoned and fetching something from a secret pocket, sewn somewhere in the bulky sleeve.  
  
“She’s been in love with you since we were girls, you know,” Arya mused with a broad grin, her grey eyes glassy with drink. “So, when my friend Lommy heard from our friend Hot Pie who works in the kitchen at Coleman’s Pharmacy that there had been a big to-do with the butcher’s boy and Harold Hardyng, I knew my pretty sister was at the root of it all.” She put the lumpy, hand-rolled log between her lips. “Wanna smoke?” She asked around the joint, fishing matches out of her pocket. He shook his head, not even annoyed that she didn’t ask _if_ she could smoke first. “I noticed you stopped drinking halfway through the night. You sure you don’t want any grass?”  
  
“I’m fine, thanks.”   
  
“Suit yourself,” Arya said shrugging, settling back as she took a long drag. After a moment, she continued, smoke billowing around her words as she recounted memories that brought a smile to her face. "Gods, I used to torment her about those letters you two used to write. She tried so desperately to keep me quiet, bribing me, begging me,  _threatening_  me." Arya looked away, still smiling, as though she could step back in time and into a girl she used to be. "At first, I was all about milking it for ice cream or her doing my chores from me, but then she went and kissed you and  _everything_  just went to shit."

Sandor felt his heart still and he looked down at the woman asleep in his arms, her little hands folded between their bodies, her pale face calm and impassive. She had kissed him after all, hadn't she? She had sought him out the moment she felt brave enough to leave her husband. Perhaps she hadn't needed him in the way he expected, but she needed him all the same. 

"I didn't think she'd ever stop crying that day," Arya continued quietly, meeting Sandor's gaze dead on as she took another drag. "I hid her letters, she didn't even need to ask. I knew our mother would tear her room apart looking for any damning evidence against you." 

"Well, I didn't speak to your sister for years, so I suppose your mother got her way."

"And then she gave mother Harry," Arya replied with a groan. "I begged Sansa to come to California with me. _Begged_. But she wouldn't budge. She had so many second thoughts about the man, the wedding, the dress, the cake. Nothing made her happy."

"Then why didn't she go?" Sandor wasn't sure what he was hoping to hear or if Arya would even stroke his ego like that, but if she had been holding out for something to happen between them, it lessened the pain he had felt all those years alone with only her letters and her ghost.

“Sansa’s never embraced change, not after our father and moving here,” Arya said after a moment, her face turning stony and serious. “We saw him die, you know.”

“I didn’t,” Sandor replied softly. Sansa never said a word about how her father died and he supposed it had been something common, so he never pressed. “She doesn’t talk about your family much.”

“Not much to say about a bunch of ghosts, I guess,” Arya bit out, tamping the end of the joint against the rim of her empty glass. “Not like she ever liked to talk about it.”

“How did it happen?” He was hesitant to ask, but curiosity won out.

“My mother and Robb had gone away for the weekend, just downstate to visit cousins for some reason I can’t remember, and Sansa and I stayed behind with father.” Arya drew her legs to her chest, leaning her cheek on her knee as her arms hugged herself tightly. “He died in the driveway after chasing us around all afternoon, and we just…watched.” She dragged her hands over her face roughly. “We didn’t know what to do, we were just children.”

Arya didn’t make a sound as tears welled and fell from her eyes as she seemed to look through him. Sandor didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to comfort, but he suddenly felt an urge to wrap his arms around both girls and shield them from the world.

After a long silence, Arya finally spoke again, brushing the tears from her cheeks with the heel of her palm. "Let me go back to California with more peace of mind than the last time I left." She smiled, took another hit, and toed his foot with her boot. "Tell me why you love her."

Sandor sighed, extending his leg that was now not only cramping from being seated but nearly numb from the slumbering girl's weight. He rubbed her back when Sansa grumbled something unintelligible in her sleep, grinning when she just burrowed harder against him. 

"I love her because she's the only one who has ever seen me as someone other than the scarred butcher," Sandor began, plainly. He wrapped a copper strand of Sansa’s hair around his finger before smoothing his hand down the side of her face, his thumb stroking her parted lips. "She’s kind, possibly to a fault, and generous with her time and her affections.” He dropped his hand down her shoulder, wrapping her closer to him. “She's funny, even when she doesn't mean to be, and a royal pain in the ass when she’s frustrated by something. She's still the most beautiful person I've ever known. And I don't just mean that she's pretty." 

"Good answer," Arya replied sincerely, leaning forward on her knees to hug him and Sansa both.

Awkwardly, Sandor wrapped the arm that wasn’t supporting Sansa about the waist and crushed Arya against them both. Sansa grunted something in protest, her face twisted into a grumpy frown.

Arya laughed as she rocked back on her heels, letting Sansa be again, smiling openly at Sandor. “I think you’ll do, Clegane” 

_This must be what it's like to be a family._

"I'm glad you approve," Sandor joked with a kind smile. When he reached forward to muss Arya’s hair, much the way she had done to Gendry earlier, she snarled and smacked his hand. He wrapped his arms around Sansa, carefully rising upward from the chair. He grimaced as he put weight down on his leg, nearly crumpling back into the chair as his knee locked. Arya's eyes shot to him, but she just sat back and watched as he rose again, this time steady on his feet. "You two can sleep where you like, there's another bedroom just over there," Sandor explained, pointing to the closed door at the foot of the stairs. "What do you girls have planned tomorrow?"

"The usual," Arya replied, hoisting herself onto the couch beside Gendry's head. "Hairstyling, recipe swapping, ritual sacrifice to the Stranger.”

Sandor couldn’t help but bark out a laugh, waking Sansa with a start.

“Well, try not to burn the house down with that grass or lose your sister to a cult, got it?” Sandor teased, walking toward the stairs as Sansa clutched him, visibly unsure of where she was and why she was moving. “Go back to sleep, little bird.”

Sansa was slack against him again before he made it to their bed where he laid her down and freed her from her shoes and dress. The room was cold, the night air seeping through every uninsulated crack in the creaky old farmhouse, and as he bared her skin to the chill his eyes sought something fit for her to sleep in. He never understood the frilly robes and shifts he saw on the mannequins at Selmy’s department store, and all too often he and Sansa had fallen asleep a tangled, naked mess. His old green sweater she had claimed for her own was neatly folded with his farm clothes on the chair of the desk. He pulled it over her goose-prickled skin, kissing every mark Harry had left on her body, exhausted far beyond anger.

When he settled in beside her, Sansa turned to face him, looking up at him with something like adoration in her eyes. She considered him silently for a long moment, dragging her fingers slowly through his hair before she kissed him deeply.

“What was that for?” Sandor asked, nudging her cheek with his nose as she snuggled up into his embrace. He liked the feel of that old sweater against his bare skin and it pleased him that it no longer smelled of him or his house, but rather the lightly perfumed soap that Sansa used.

“Thank you,” she whispered into his chest, twining her legs in his.

“For what, little bird?”

“Making my nan’s cake, not going after Harry.” She silenced him with a kiss that made him forget why he had been angry at all that day before she pulled back with that same look of awe. “Thank you for being good to my sister.”

Sandor had never been considered kind and had rarely been thanked for anything than the perfunctory preparation of a customer’s order, but there was something so tender in Sansa’s tone it made his heart ache. “Don’t tell her I said this,” Sandor whispered in her ear, nipping at her lobe softly, “but I like her.”

Sandor lay awake for a while after Sansa fell back to sleep against his chest, his mind racing. He couldn’t help when his thoughts turned to children, dragging up their conversation from the night before. He imagined a family of dark-haired girls with his grey eyes and freckled, ginger boys with her blues. And as he let his eyes close, holding to the vision of his future as long as he could, he drifted off to sleep with a final, comforting thought.

_This is what it feels like to have a family._

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all...it's been too long.
> 
> Sorry I had to take a break. Took longer than I wanted to get some personal things under control in my life and then back on track writing. I just want to thank all of you who might still be reading and a special thank you to all of you that reached out to check in. I'm sorry if I wasn't always good at getting back to you, but I love you all.
> 
> Aiming for another update, same time next week. <3

Sansa groaned into her pillow as a hand rocked her frame. Her head was throbbing, every sip of wine from the night before coming back to her in sharp relief as she slowly blinked away the fog of sleep. She turned toward the hand that pulled her from her now forgotten dreams, only to see Sandor’s smug face smiling down at her. She curled her lip into a playful snarl as he gently rolled over her by the shoulder.

“Drink this, you little boozehound,” Sandor joked quietly, offering her a glass of cloudy water that carried a distinct medicinal odor. She would kiss him for his thoughtfulness if her mouth didn’t taste so sour. “Think you’ll be able to rejoin the ranks of the living?”

“Doubtful,” Sansa moaned between short sips of the bitter drink. She suddenly became aware of the mess she must look, noticing how he had already dressed for the day. Dressed meant no fun. Dressed meant work. “Can’t you stay abed with me a bit longer?”

“As it turns out,” he began with a smile as he lifted the glass from her hand and secured in on the table beside the bed, “there’s an upshot to having two squatters in the house.”

“And what is that?” Sansa flung her arm over her eyes, peeking out at him from the darkness of her elbow.

“I can put them to work so I can nurse pretty little birds back to health.” The bed dipped under his weight and Sansa couldn’t help but return the bright smile that lit his face as he settled in beside her. She could smell the crisp fall air on his clothes, softened by the Swan army soap he still used after all these years. She rolled into him, embraced by the arm that wasn’t propping his head up on the pillow. His scarred side was facing up and she ran the back of her hand over the part of him he no longer tried to hide. 

“Well, what do you suggest for treatment, doctor?” Sansa asked coquettishly, walking her fingers over the iridescent buttons of his faded blue shirt. She loved the way he looked at her in those moments, his mouth slightly agape as the warm rush of his breath on her neck quickened with every button she teased open. She traced her bottom lip with her tongue, looking up at him through the veil of copper tresses that had fallen over her face, satisfied by the way he seemed to be simmering under her touch.

“You are overdressed for one,” Sandor quipped with a hungry grin, sliding his open palms over the curves of her sides, exposing her to the chill that pervaded the farmhouse. As he tossed his olive drab sweater to the floor with a gentle thud, his face blanched and anger settled into the ball of his jaw.

“How are you feeling this morning?” When he finally spoke, his tone was flat and devoid of the levity that colored the moments prior. Sandor winced as he passed his thumbs over her skin, barely touching her as the scene in the alley came crashing back into her mind.

“I feel fine,” Sansa assured him, capturing his hands in hers and forcing him to look at her. “I’m happy to have my sister here and I’m so pleased that you like her.”

“She’s a little spitfire,” Sandor replied with a smirk, face softening, the weight between them lifting. “What’s not to like?”

“She seems to like Gendry, don’t you think?” Sansa couldn’t help the glimmer of hope that crept into her thoughts as she imagined her sister falling in love and moving back home.

“Heard how much she liked him last night, then?” Sandor teased with a mischievous chuckle, nipping gently at her neck as his hands roamed her back. His soft laughter turned riotous as he backed away to see her eyes go wide and her skin flush a deep crimson. He kissed away the look of shock that had settled over her features, coaxing small, blissful sighs from her lips instead. “After their little performance, it was quite the challenge looking either of them in the eyes this morning.”

“Well, are they still downstairs?” Sansa probed coyly, wrapping her slender leg around his as she arched against the touch that traced her spine.

“I sent them to the barn half an hour ago,” Sandor replied, his hand curling around the back of her thigh with a playful squeeze. “Haven’t heard them back in just yet.”

“Good,” Sansa all but purred, shucking the shirt she’d opened from his shoulders. “Then it seems I have you all to myself.”

“Easy woman,” Sandor growled between the warm kisses he left over the marks that peppered her collarbones. “Gendry usually covers for me at the shop when you turn into a wanton little harlot like you are now, but he’s already covering for me in the barn.” The stubble of his cheek as it razed her neck gave her chills as he nuzzled his way to her ear, his voice like an electrical charge surging through her veins. “Though it is possible he’s up to the very same thing with your sister at this very moment.” Her eyes slid shut as his teeth grazed her earlobe. “In which case, we haven’t got much time left.”

“Oh hush!” Sansa admonished with a shake of her head as she grinned. She traced the dark hair that covered his chest and stomach with her open hand, relishing the way his breath caught whenever she turned her fingers to drag her nails softly over the sensitive skin of his sides. He had never looked so handsome as he did just then, relaxed and smiling at her.

Sansa had never felt so in love.

In an instant, he was above her, her head rolling back into the pillows as Sandor covered her breasts with his mouth. She moaned softly as the thumbs that braced her ribs dragged down the length of her torso, ghosting over her navel. The chill his gentle touch gave her was quickly stoked into a raging fire as his thumbs pressed into the crooks of her thighs, making her buck her hips against him.

The sound of her lacy smallclothes tearing raised a sound of protest to her lips, but Sandor was quick to silence her with his mouth again, entering her in one swift and fiery stroke. Sansa braced herself against him, heels digging into the backs of his thighs, as he palmed the back of her head.

“Look at me,” he rasped softly, but in a way that made her obey. He was fanning her desire with every thrust, his raw and uninhibited passion overwhelming. Sandor had always made her feel loved, but he had never made her feel as possessed as she did that morning. “I want to see you come for me, little bird.”

Sansa always was a good girl.

She could taste the saltiness of his roughened palm as he stifled the unladylike cry that escaped her lips as he drove her into a blinding white heat that curled her toes and left marks along his muscled shoulders. Sansa ran her tongue over the length of his finger as his hand began to slip from her mouth. It was a long time before the hammering of her heart stilled and even longer before Sandor would raise his head to look at her. He looked at her quietly for a long while as he brushed the hair from her eyes. Sansa met his gaze with a wide grin and they kissed lazily until they begrudgingly rose to meet the day.

Sansa rose slowly, pulling the simple blue dress hanging on the post of his bed over her bare skin, slipping her feet into the house shoes she kept on her side. When she looked back over her shoulder at the man piecing his own clothing back together, she couldn’t help but smile.

She was home.

Before she could object, Sandor hoisted her over his shoulder and bounded down the stairs. She was grateful that her headache had abated, and the contents of her stomach seemed relatively secure as he moved swiftly toward the kitchen, despite the mangled leg that so often slowed him down. He deposited her laughing and squealing onto the kitchen counter beside the range.

It wasn’t an uncommon way to begin their day together, Sansa handing Sandor the odd utensil or ingredient as she basked in the glow of their lovemaking. What _was_ uncommon was the roar of a powerful engine as it ratted toward the farmhouse.

“Expecting someone?” Sandor asked, slipping his thumb between his lips to wick away a bit of batter that clung to his skin as a loud knock rattled the storm door.

“No one who would think to knock,” Sansa replied, never knowing her sister to ask permission to do anything, let alone enter the house she had all but claimed as her own in half a day. Sansa’s heart began to race a bit as she wondered if it wasn’t Harry coming to cause another scene. _Perhaps it’s Olenna_ , Sansa thought with a hopeful smile, thinking the old woman would arrive unannounced for a lecture over breakfast.

“Keep an eye on these?” Sandor asked as he wiped his hands on the towel Sansa held in her lap, snorting a few playful kisses against her neck that left her feeling flushed and shivering all at once before the second round of knocks came.

Sansa didn’t need to move from her spot on the counter to flip the pancakes that had begun to pillow as the browned butter sizzled in the hot pan. She couldn’t help but turn her gaze toward the door, feeling the sharp pinch of anxiety as she strained to make sense of the voices floating in from the patio. Sandor was leaning against the doorframe, swallowing the scene on the other side. After another long moment of muffled conversation, he looked back over his shoulder at her.

“Someone here that wants to speak to you, little bird.”

Sansa couldn’t read Sandor’s flat tone, simply nodding in his direction as she slid down the counter and clicked the burner off. As she approached the entry with no small amount of trepidation, she spied a man large enough to stand eye-to-eye with Sandor, and she knew immediately who stood on the other side of the parted door.

_Lothor Brune._

“Good morning, Sherriff,” Sansa greeted the imposing figure with a nervous smile, sliding to Sandor’s side in the narrow doorframe.

Lothor palmed the crown of his wide-brimmed hat as he lowered it to his chest and gave her a slight nod, muttering a gravelly, “Miss Stark.”

“What brings you all the way out here, Brune?” Sandor asked, not quite rude, but with a lack of deference in his tone that chafed against Sansa’s manners.

The corners of Lothor Brune’s mouth quirked slightly as he fished in his chest pocket for a battered, spiral bound notepad. He flicked it open to a blank page, a move patented by years of practice. “Got a call from a concerned citizen,” he recounted, almost bemused. “Says she witnessed an attack in the alley behind your shop yesterday.” The smirk never fell from his lips as he hid his gaze behind the mirrored sunglasses that framed his square face. “Involves Mr. Hardyng, so it seemed only logical to start here.”

“Left early yesterday, you can ask Waters,” Sandor offered with a shrug and Sansa found herself grateful it was the truth. Sandor’s hand rested steadily on her side, his thumb rubbing small circles against her.

“I will,” Brune replied, nodding, not yet committing anything to his little record book, “but what about you, Miss Stark?” Brune lowered the reflective glasses, hooking them on his breast pocket as he turned his stony gaze upon her. “Do you have anything to say about an attack yesterday?”

Sansa could feel herself begin to tremble, unsure how to navigate the truth between the two solemn men bookending her without jeopardizing her sister. When she looked to Sandor, he merely nodded, his hand giving her hip a gentle squeeze. Lothor beckoned her with a slight nod to begin and Sansa rubbed at her forearms self-consciously.

The grin on Brune’s face was quickly replaced by a deep-set frown as his eyes connected the brownish blooms that marked her fair skin to the very incident he had been dispatched to investigate.

“Let’s take this inside,” Brune suggested, allowing Sandor to usher her through the door as he followed close behind. When he spoke again, his tone was far gentler than it had been outside, and there was something akin to empathy in eyes as they settled into the chairs around the small table. “Tell me what happened.”

“Harry took me by surprise when I was on my way to see Sandor,” Sansa began, faltering a bit. When Brune’s stony features remained unchanged, she continued. “I’ve taken to using the alley since it seems to draw less attention, but Harry must have followed me from our meeting at Kevan Lannister’s office.”

“I imagine the meeting was tense?” Lothor asked, his eyes drifting knowingly between Sandor and Sansa.

“Harry certainly wasn’t happy with the way things went, but I didn’t antagonize him,” Sansa explained, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her tone. “Kevan kicked him out and I suppose Harry didn’t get the chance to say what he wanted, so he sought me out.” Sansa unclenched her jaw when she felt a sharp pain shoot through her molars, forcing herself to unfurl her balled fists on the table.

“No offense, Sansa, but I don’t really believe it was you that broke Harry’s nose and a few of his ribs.” Lothor leaned toward her, his face grim as he gently pulled her hands closer to him, pushing her sweater back again to look at her bruises. “Though I wouldn’t blame you or do a thing about it.”

“No, it wasn’t me,” Sansa admitted, after a pause, gnawing her bottom lip. “But it wasn’t Sandor, either.”

“Well, I know it wasn’t Waters,” Lothor added with a laugh. “That kid has no stomach for violence. Calls me down to that watering hole any time there’s any kind of scuffle.”

As if on cue, voices sounded from the other side of the door. A sheepish looking Gendry entered, with straw sticking out of his dark hair, followed closely by a glassy-eyed Arya whose shirt was misbuttoned. The pair hastily tried to make themselves look a bit more presentable, seeming not to notice the lawman sitting at the seat just inside the door. Arya was the first to catch on, her steel-colored eyes growing wide with anger as she leveled her piercing gaze to the man hovering over Sansa’s shoulder.

“You sold me out to the fucking heat?” Arya shouted at Sandor, looking wounded as much as angry.

“Haven’t said a word, girl,” Sandor ground out before flashing a small, uneasy smile down at Sansa.

The relief that washed over Arya’s features was not lost on Sansa, who merely narrowed her eyes at her roguish sister.

 _She’ll tell me what_ that _look was about later_.

“Wanna introduce me to your friend, Waters?” Lothor asked dryly, chuckling as Gendry shifted on his feet nervously. Arya didn’t shy away when the officer landed on her, merely crossing her arms over her chest as Brune assessed her. “Or perhaps you’ll just go on and incriminate yourself again.”

“Arya Stark,” Sansa’s sister offered, extending her visibly dirty hand to Lothor, who dismissed her greeting with a wave of his hand. Arya looked to Sansa for an explanation. “What’s he doing here?”

“Had a call about an attack on Harrold Hardyng,” Lothor answered for Sansa. He didn’t miss the way Arya’s face lit up, a smirk pulling at his typically stoic features. “I take it this little hellion is the culprit?”

“In the flesh,” Arya beamed, flopping herself into the seat to Brune’s left. She put her hands palm up on the table before him, cocking a brow as she challenged him with a wink. “Cuff me, but I doubt Hardyng will ever press charges. He’d have to admit it happened.” When she seemed certain the sheriff had no intent to arrest her, Arya relaxed back in the old barrel chair. “What’s for breakfast?”

“I would like to go one godsdamned week without having to see Clegane’s pretty face,” Lothor lamented sarcastically, ignoring Arya’s question, “or having to have one more stammering conversation with Waters, over there about Harrold fucking Hardyng.”

Sandor shot a questioning look at Gendry who immediately reddened and looked away.

“What’s that about?” Sandor hissed. Gendry winced, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck as he weighed what came next. Sandor stomped his foot impatiently behind Sansa, who couldn’t help but jump at the loud thud.

Gendry’s eyes immediately shot up to his boss. “I’ve had to call a few times from the bar,” he explained, defensively adding, “I didn’t want to worry you. It’s not like he’s the only guy who drinks his check and makes a scene on Friday nights.”

“Thank you for not worrying me!” Sandor erupted.

“Calm down, Clegane,” Brune said, rolling his eyes. He ran a hand through his graying locks before retiring his steno book, flipping the battered pad closed and slipping it in his pocket deftly. He looked between Sansa’s makeshift family with a tired, but playful, smile. “Care to walk me out, Miss Stark?”

“Of course,” Sansa responded and rose to her feet.

When they were through the door and Sansa had pulled it closed behind her, Lothor cocked his head toward his cruiser, beckoning her to follow him down the flagstone steps. When they reached his car, he leaned his back against the hood, turning to face Sansa as she descended the stairs. “How long is that sister of yours planning on staying in town for?”

Sansa couldn’t help but laugh, feeling as if the tension had begun to ease a bit. The stones were cool as they moved beneath her bare feet and she lifted her shoulders at the man before her. “She hasn’t said exactly, but not long. She’s made it clear she has little interest in Cold Spring.”

“Good,” Brune said evenly, though his expression was kind. “That big brute in there treating you well?”

“Just fine, Sheriff,” Sansa replied with a soft laugh. “How’s Mya?”

Lothor was married to Mya Stone, a girl whose fierce independence and ability to shirk social responsibilities had always been enviable to Sansa. Marrying a no-named officer nearly twice her age had seemed bold if not ill-advised by the Ladies Who Lunch, but as Brune rose the ranks to sheriff in the span of their marriage, Mya soon found herself a sought-after social companion. The dark-haired beauty remained aloof, joining only the Junior League’s annual bake sale where she made a tray of Betty Crocker cupcakes that sat amidst the other women’s homemade treats. Mya always stood proudly behind her creations as though she were daring someone to say something.

No one ever did.

“She’s great, yeah,” Lothor replied with a genuine smile that deepened the tanned lines framing his features. “She’s rooting for you two,” he said, winking as he turned to slide into the driver’s seat of his hard-top Fairlaine cruiser. “We’ll have you over for dinner some time to make up for crashing your breakfast.”

“Only if she makes her famous cupcakes!” Sansa called over her shoulder, bounding up the cool flagstone steps to the door. The sheriff’s loud, booming laughter faded under the growl of the cruiser as it rattled down the drive, kicking up plumes of dust in its wake.

Sansa made her way back into the kitchen where Arya and Gendry were greedily devouring the breakfast Sandor had finished while Sansa had been outside. He was leaning against the stove, sipping a cup of coffee. He brought her into the circle of his arms as soon as she was close enough, pressing a soft kiss against her cheek before offering her a drink from his cup.

“Feeling alright, little bird?” His voice was sweet in her ear as she settled back against him, letting his strong arms squeeze her tightly to him. “Brune didn’t give you any trouble, did he?” Sandor swept the hair from her shoulder, leaning down to press his mouth against the reddish blooms that mottled her skin.

“He invited us to dinner with him and Mya sometime,” Sansa said, smiling at the sight of her sister and Gendry laughing and leaning into one another while they ate. Happiness had never truly defined her relationship with Arya, their childhood memories seemingly cast from tragedy. But there, in the faint grey light of a cold morning, Sansa knew that this was happiness. “Do you think she’ll stay?”

Sandor quirked a sad smile down at her and shook his head softly. He kissed her cheek again, assuaging her disappointment with the love she could feel emanating through her from his embrace. “We’ll visit,” he assured her, kissing her neck again as his hand rubbed her lower back gently. “Shit,” he hissed under his breath, his eyes flicking to the clock inset in the range. “Gendry and I gotta go meet the beef delivery.”

“Miss me?” Sansa asked rhetorically. She watched as he downed the dregs of his coffee before setting his mug in the sink. When he braced her against him, she couldn’t help but gasp as his hands wrapped about her hips and his lips fell upon hers in a bruising kiss. “So not even a little then?”

“Sorry to leave you with the dishes, little bird,” Sandor said through a grin, tipping her chin up to meet his gaze, “but at least these two got the barn done.”

“About that,” Arya said around a mouthful of pancake and jam, her hand drifting to Gendry’s messy hair to pluck the last bit of straw from his locks. Arya bit her lip as she smiled at the blushing, still rather boyish man before her. “We got…distracted.”

“Make this one muck the stalls,” Sandor said with a chuckle before kissing her again. He made his way to the door, Gendry in tow, shaking his head at Arya who hadn’t ceased filling her face from the moment she sat down to the table. He shot Sansa a wink and she smiled warmly after him, realizing she would never tire of the way his body moved as he hurried down the porch stairs.

Sansa nearly dropped the dish in her hand when the door clattered open again and Gendry burst into the kitchen, panting a bit as the bleating of Sandor’s horn rang through the quiet morning.

“Sorry,” Gendry mumbled, nodding at Sansa before turning to meet Arya’s wide-eyed stare. “Will I see you later, _Miss_ Stark?”

“I have plans,” came Arya’s jumbled and incredibly unladylike response. Half-masticated breakfast slid between the girl’s working jaws in a way that could not possibly be attractive, or so Sansa thought, though Gendry was all moon-faced over her feral sister. “You better get out there,” Arya interjected, her brow arched in warning as the horned blared not once, but in three short bursts. “We’ll talk later, yeah?”

That was apparently all the encouragement Gendry needed and he pushed his luck yet again by leaning in to plant a kiss on Arya’s almost empty mouth before flying out the door. Sandor’s truck had begun to pull away down the drive and Sansa couldn’t help but smile as she watched Gendry race to catch up.

“What plans do you have?” Sansa asked gamely, turning her attention back to the sink.

“The kind of plans that involve him sweating it out for a bit,” Arya replied, grinning into her coffee as she looked every bit the victor. “He’s just so very eager.”

“Don’t be cruel, Arya,” Sansa chided, her brow furrowed as she tucked a towel-clad hand into the gold-rimmed coffee pot. She didn’t like the idea of seeing Gendry pouting around Sandor’s shop like a battered puppy once Arya decided she was bored or disappeared again. “He clearly likes you and he’s terribly sweet.”

“So, would it be less cruel to lead him on with false hope only to leave once he’s good and enamored?”

Sansa didn’t need to turn around to see the smug look Arya was giving her, almost able to hear her dark brow cocked comically high in the tone of her voice and the haughty way she cocked her head to the side.

 _Some things never change_.

Sansa hated admitting when her sister was right, so she merely turned her back to Arya and muttered into the sink, “I suppose not.” She wanted to say something like _it would be better if you stayed here and married Gendry and bought a home of your own just down the way,_ but she knew better than to push her luck. Arya had only been in her life again for less than a day.

Arya pushed back from the table, issuing a loud creak as the old wooden chair strained against the floor beneath it, and began clearing the dishes from the table. Sansa watched from the corner of her eye as her sister scraped the leftover bits of bread and fruit into the bucket of scraps that went out for the chickens every evening. It was hard for Sansa not to think of her as just a little girl, evoking the image that remained in her mind after all these years. But as she took her in that morning, her alabaster skin pearlescent in the early morning light, Sansa had to concede that Arya was a child no longer and a beauty in her own right.

“Reno is only a few hours from Berkeley, you know.”

Sansa’s eyes snapped up to meet her sister’s as the younger girl sidled up next to her at the sink, bumping her hip against Sansa’s as she lifted a towel from the drying rack. Arya was always shit at washing.

“I didn’t,” Sansa replied cooly, plunging her hands into the reservoir of soapy water as she fought to suppress the grin that quirked the corners of her mouth. “Did Sandor tell you about my leaving?” It made her smile to think that perhaps he had asked Arya to accompany her to the far-off desert divorce ranches, but when Sansa spied the mischief in her sister’s eyes, she knew all too well Arya had snooped. “No, of course not.” The smile broke free on her face and she felt warmed by the giggle Arya let out. “You read my papers.”

“You’ve never told me anything, Sansa,” Arya provided in her defense, looking to Sansa every time a dish was dry for direction to its home. “So, I figured you out like I always have.”

“And have you figured me out, then?” Sansa asked, gamely. She pointed to a corner cabinet as Arya arched a brow at the copper-bottomed pot in her hands.

“Well, I did have one question,” Arya replied, folding the linen towel in a neat square on the counter, wiping away the water that had pooled beside the basin. She waited until Sansa nodded her approval before she spoke again, “how long has this been going on?” She leaned against the counter as she pushed her dark hair away from her eyes with the back of her forearm. “You and Sandor?”

“Since I found out Harry was sleeping with his secretary,” Sansa replied dryly, her mouth suddenly tasting rotten. “I threw wine all over her after he brought her to our house, our dinner party.” Sansa could feel the phantom pangs of anger that still tinged her memories of that evening. “When I confronted him, he slapped me, and I left.” Sansa gestured around her at the empty kitchen that had once been so strange that had become something of her own. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“There are plenty of places I can think to go,” Arya teased through a knowing smirk. “Is it everything you always dreamed it would be?”

Sansa turned the question over for a moment, leaning against the enamel basin of the sink. She thought back to when she was young and had a head full of fairy tales and the way she had stubbornly held on to such impractical notions. Her adult idea of love was starting to feel a lot more romantic than the hollow tales she used to recount as she fell asleep.

“I think it’s better,” Sansa replied easily, because it was. “What about Gendry?”

“What about him?”

“Well,” Sansa began with a laugh, “won’t you miss him when you go?”

“We have fun,” Arya offered with a shrug, as though she were brushing off the very idea of the man, “but I don’t know that it’s anything serious.”

“Aren’t you sleeping with him?” Judgment crept unchecked into her tone and Sansa immediately wished she hadn’t spoken so quickly.

“Yes,” her sister replied with measured calm, “but what has that got to do with anything?”

“Everything!” Sansa roared, her hands flying up in frustration.

“It’s a different world out there, Sansa,” Arya said calmly with a smile and another shrug of her narrow shoulders. “I don’t know that I believe in love the same way you do.”

“So, you can be with a man and then just move on with no longing or remorse?’ Sansa felt color rising in her cheeks as she quickly became the aggressor to Arya’s even keel.

“Hasn’t been a problem yet.”

“I don’t understand that at all,” Sansa said with no small amount of defeat, shaking her head at the soapy water below her. “Don’t you want to be loved?”

“I am loved, Sansa.” There was an edge in Arya’s voice now, a plate narrowly surviving the force with which she shelved it in the cabinet. “I have friends, I have you again. I _feel_ loved. The kind of love you’ve been after our whole lives isn’t something I’ve felt or maybe it just doesn’t feel the same for me. For now, I’m happy with my life and while Gendry is nice, I’m not sure he’s someone I’ll still be pining over in ten years as you have for tall, dark and stormy.”

“I think you don’t see what I see,” Sansa insisted, shaking water from her pruning fingers as she thrust another dish at her sister. All she could see was the way she and Gendry had laughed all evening. All she could remember were the stolen kisses when the pair thought no one was looking. It seemed a lot like love.

“I think you need this trip to Reno, much as you might hate it because you need to see what life can be like outside of this town.” Arya slipped the dish back into the water, pulling Sansa’s hands into her own as she turned her pleading gaze toward her. “And I’m not saying you should, or even that you could," Arya faltered briefly, "but you’ll meet new people, maybe even a new man, and everything you think you know right now might change.”

Sansa felt wounded. She knew Arya hadn’t meant it as an attack, but the thought of there being a love for her outside of that farmhouse seemed inconceivable. It seemed a lot like treason.

“I would never do that to Sandor.”

“You,” Arya said, jamming a pale finger in Sansa’s face, “you right here, at this moment, might not. But who knows was happens when _little birds_ get freed from their cages.”

“Don’t do that,” Sansa said, her voice thick with the tears that seemed inevitable. “Don’t call me _that_ while you stand in his house and insult my feeling for him.” She wrenched her hands free from Arya’s grasp, turning to look out the louvered windows. Anywhere but Arya’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, it’s not like you _have_ to meet someone else,” Arya continued, gentler this time, putting her hand in the small of Sansa’s back. “I like Sandor, I don’t mean to diminish what you have. But you hardly know yourself, Sansa. How are you so sure you know what you want?”

“Arya, I don’t want to argue about this,” Sansa sighed, resting her elbows on the edge of the sink before burying her face in her hands. “I want to see a new city, a new place, hells, get a million miles away from this stuffy old town,” she confessed to the dusty kitchen floor, “but it breaks my heart to do it without him.”

“You’ll have me,” Arya said kindly, pulling Sansa tight to her side. “I told Gendry I’d stay for his nameday next week.” When Sansa lifted her watery gaze to her sister, Arya was quick to silence her with the wag of a bony finger. “It means nothing, just a nice thing a friend would do.”

Sansa suppressed the self-satisfied grin that came easily to her with a tight-lipped nod. “Of course it doesn’t mean anything,” she replied seriously, impressing even herself with how convincing the words sounded coming out of her mouth, “only that you love him and want to have loads of babies with him.”

“I am not too old to splash you with dirty dishwater or cut your hair while you sleep,” Arya warned, flicking her fingers over the water as if to demonstrate the gravity of her threat. “Now let's plan your divorce, you two-timing harlot."


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day late, but here we go! A million thanks to my incredibly patient beta, ToodleOo, who turns my nonsense into readable fiction. All the love to you out there reading and commenting--you're the best audience a girl could hope for!

“Arya, that’s too much!” Sandor heard Sansa cry out as he descended the stairs.

When he entered the kitchen, Arya was standing at the table with Sansa hovering anxiously behind her, gnawing at the nail of her index finger. He almost laughed out loud when Sansa stomped her foot on the linoleum, visibly impatient with how poorly her sister was doing at what must have been for Sansa an easy task.

“You load the knife,” Sansa explained, voice taught like a wire, “and then you turn the cake like this.” She demonstrated the technique, the exasperation in her voice telling him this was not the first time they’d had this conversation. “You see?”

 “I think I understand,” Arya replied tentatively, cocking her head in mock concentration as Sansa repeated the motion. She looked up to Sandor when Sansa had her head turned toward the cake and gave him a knowing smile. “I think if you showed me just one more time, I’ll have the hang of it.”

Sandor couldn’t help but laugh at that—another turn and Sansa would have the cake finished.

“You’re both horrible!” Sansa said, narrowing her eyes at him. She lifted the laden cake knife and flung a glob of frosting at her sister.

Arya simply curled a finger through the pillowy blob on her shirt, licking it clean. “And you are easy,” she retorted. She let out a chuckle as she brushed by Sandor to the fridge, bottles rattling as she flung the door open. “She always fell for that one.”

Sandor grinned, leaning against the white fridge as he hooked his pinky into the dollop on Arya’s shirt. Sansa looked up at him he disappeared the digit between his lips. “It’s delicious,” he offered with a laugh, knowing it would only serve to fire her up.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Sansa said smiling, shaking her head as she turned her patient attention back to the cake. A moment later, the phone hanging on the wall by the door rang and she lit up, the knife falling with a soft clang to the table below her. “That must be Margaery!” She had spent several evenings talking to Margaery on the phone, coordinating her arrival and lodging at the younger Tyrell’s bed and breakfast.

Margaery had become quite the distraction.

“Watch it, Sandy,” Arya quipped, slamming the door to the icebox, “if you’re not careful, Sansa might fall in love with _Margaery Tyrell_ and never come home.” Arya cocked her brows at him suggestively, snapping into an apple.

His eyes were drawn immediately to the papers that flapped as the door sang shut, the thick red _X_ Sansa had marked on the calendar the week before glaring back at him, her imminent departure taunting him.

_Fucking Arya._

Funny, rebellious, free-spirited Arya. In many ways, she was the brother Sandor never had, but she was also the greatest saleswoman the state of California could hope for. Sandor stewed on the other end of the table most nights as Sansa hung dreamily on every word of promise Arya assured her the Land of Milk and Honey could fulfill.  It wasn’t the that he thought she meant to fill him with doubt, but Sandor feared that traveling with Arya opened the possibility of Sansa leaving for Reno and trading their relationship for one with her sister. Sansa had chosen Harry over Arya once before, and he didn’t know that she’d do it once again.

It had become clear to Sandor in the days since Sansa marked the calendar that there was no topic the Stark sisters would not fight about. Every day was a new task for Sansa to check off her Reno list, and every day she and Arya fought about which map was best for learning the city, which suitcases were best suited for six weeks of travel. They bickered endlessly, never on the same side of any debate, and Sandor began to wonder how the two could even stand being together day in and day out. Any disagreement between himself and Gregor would have been settled by violence before a counter position could even be formed.

In a week’s time he had seen Sansa get a haircut, buy new shoes, and agonize over whether it was better to have him visit midway through her stay or come at the very end. After letting her work the subject from every angle, he had cupped her face and silenced her with a kiss. He would come a week before she left, and they would take the train back together. It had made her smile and made him feel loved. _Wanted_.

Sandor wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing at the fridge with his hand on the cold, metal handle when Arya spoke. The ominous red mark on the promotional calendar from the Red and White had transfixed him and he found himself frowning at the sight of two single, unmarked boxes before it.

“Oh, hey, I forgot to ask before,” Arya said, chomping the apple from the kitchen table as she idly flipped through one of Sansa’s design magazines. “Birdie bought those damned suitcases today.”

Sandor laughed distantly, remembering all too well the fight that had transpired earlier that week when the sisters came home from an errand at Selmy’s. Arya extolled the virtues of the black, leather duffel and Sansa preferred the more stylish nesting Samsonite cases.

But it had made him happier than he had any right to be that Arya morphed his moniker for Sansa into one of her own.

 “Was there a question in there?”

Arya rolled her eyes impetuously at him, swallowing the last hunk of the fruit before dropping the core to the table. “ _I’m_ not dragging in her ridiculous luggage.”

“Say please,” Sandor taunted, pushing Arya by the shoulder playfully as he passed to the door. Sansa cupped her hand over the phone and mouthed _thank you_ as he neared her. He nodded with a smile, unable to resist the urge to pinch her backside in that slip of a buttercream shirt dress she was wearing. The flush that colored her cheeks as she gasped loudly never failed to satisfy him deeply. He kissed her neck softly before pushing open the screen door and out into the cold evening air.

“You two are disgusting!” Arya shouted after him as he padded down the flagstones to the Edsel.

He was still grinning to himself as he popped open the trunk, a grin that died the moment he saw the marbled blue vinyl.

_Two more boxes to check,_ he mused bitterly. He stood there, looking over the cases for a long moment, dreaming of all the ways he could destroy them. He hated fire, so that was out. He considered driving over them with the tractor, shredding them to ribbons. _Too loud_ , he conceded finally.

Defeated, he lifted the cluster of cases roughly out of Sansa’s trunk, slamming the lid loudly as he stalked back up the patio steps. He rammed them against the door that hung ajar, clearly startling Sansa, who had been giggling over some trivial nonsense with the Tyrell girl.

“Where do you want them?” Sandor snapped, not so loud that the girl on the other end of the line would hear, but loud enough to make Sansa frown.

“In the bedroom, if you don’t mind,” she replied, muting the receiver with her hand. She looked hurt and he felt validated.

“Oh, I fucking mind,” he muttered to himself as he stomped on toward the stairs in the living room. He wasn’t sure if she heard him, but he hoped she did. He limped on, nearly tripping over Arya who lay sprawled out on the floor in front of the hi-fi, shuffling records between her hands stretched over her head. A joint was pursed between her lips and Sandor scowled, toeing her rib. “Knock it off with that fucking grass already.”

“Oh, calm down, _Sandy_ ,” she mocked, her face turning stony and serious when he glowered down at her, making it clear he was in no mood to play. She walked up on her elbows, dropping her head back as she let out a long string of smoke. She leveled her gaze up at him, but it wasn’t him she was seeing. “I hate those godsdamned cases.”

“You and me both,” Sandor growled, stalking up the stairs.

Arya hated them because they were cute and frivolous, the antithesis of utilitarian. Sandor hated the suitcases because they made it real. They made him feel every second between that moment and the two empty boxes that stood between him and Sansa leaving.

It had been a weight off his mind to know that Sansa was headed to Reno to put Harry behind her, but things still didn’t feel settled for him. Divorced or no, Harry would be a short drive away once she got back to town, ready to spoil any happy moment they might have. Even if only in his thoughts.

Their life was isolated on the farm and in downtown Cold Spring and the future he wanted to give her looked a lot different. Sandor wondered how many years it would take, how many ruined evenings, dramatic dinners out in town, before Harry would forget they existed. Perhaps Myranda’s inevitable pregnancy, or perhaps after Sandor got his turn serving the prick his ass they would live in peace.

He hated the thought of not knowing.

He hated not being able to let down his guard.

He foisted the cases onto the bed with a sigh, retreating to his desk where he slumped into the waiting chair. There was a stack of neglected bills and letters on the desk and he reclined back, forcing a long groan from the old vinyl chair.

He set to cutting open the myriad envelopes. Many, as he expected, were statements of bills owed and grim balances of money kept. His father had never really let him in on the inner workings of the business, the family living largely out of the till as far back as he could remember. But as Sandor pondered the kind of future he could give the woman he loved, the stark reality was proving far less promising than he had hoped.

The pile dwindled into torn envelopes and a neat stack he’d file later. The whole chore felt rather empty as his eye kept wandering to the suitcases on the bed. He fumbled around in the top drawer of his desk, rummaging through the pens and envelopes for the small screwdriver he had stashed in there. He breathed out, relieved as the tool filled his grasp and he dreamed of taking apart each case slowly, rivet by rivet, leaving them in piles of vinyl and brass.

“I thought you had gone to bed.” Sansa’s voice was quiet from the doorway, her pale face swathed in the silver moonlight as pushed off the door frame, wrenching him from his thoughts.

“Go on to bed without me, little bird,” he said, voice hoarse and low. “Feeling restless already tonight.”

“It’s getting harder to remember a time when you stayed in bed the whole night through,” she teased gently, though there was something more than that in her tone. Concern? Love? _Pity_. “The nights have gotten so cold and I had grown rather fond of having you beside me.”

“Better get used to it,” Sandor offered with a snort, the words sounding more venomous off his tongue than in his mind. “You won’t have anyone warming your bed before long.” He let his head roll against the high back of the upholstered chair he kept at his desk, his mind churning in time with his stomach. “Or perhaps you will. Who can know?”

There it was. Anxiety, the parasite that had burrowed deep inside his mind and spread poison through his veins, had finally worked its way out of his mouth. He heard the sharp breath she drew in the near darkness and immediately wished it all back. But he couldn’t and, more importantly, he wouldn’t.

Pride was a funny thing like that.

“Why would you say something so cruel?” Sansa managed after a moment stretched between them, fraught with tension. Her gentle tone merely twisted his guts even more. “I’m gone the day after tomorrow and you decide to avoid me, _ignore me_ , rather than talk to me.” He could hear the tears he couldn’t see choking her voice. “And now you just want to hurt me.”

“You’ve been more interested in California than anything going on around here lately,” he scoffed. “Haven’t had much time to bare my soul to you.”

“Is that it, then?” Sansa asked, her voice rising as she pushed off the door, emerging into the moonlight like a specter from the darkness. “I have to choose between having a relationship with my sister or having one with you?”

Sandor remained silent, at an impasse he knew all too well within himself. He knew whatever came out next was likely to be cruel for the sake of being cruel, charged with all the pent-up insecurity he’d been lugging around his whole life. Vulnerability seemed a bridge too far.

Sansa approached the other side of his desk, her blue eyes watery and dark with sadness. He wasn’t sure when she had become so self-possessed, but it made him oddly proud that she could stand up to him, even if the look in her eyes suggested she’d rather kill him than fuck him.

“I thought you’d be grateful, relieved even, that I wouldn’t have to cross the country alone,” Sansa mused, nearly echoing his own thoughts, her tone souring with anger as she rapped her fingers across the desktop before him. “But I should know by now that no man can stand his woman sharing her affections, not even with her sister.”

“You’re a fool if you don’t see what she’s after,” Sandor remarked grimly, crossing his arms over his chest, almost daring her. “You think she’s just regaling you with stories of her new life just so you’ll be happy for her?” He barked out a cruel laugh that rocked Sansa back on her heels. “She wants you to run away with her just as much as you want her to marry Gendry and stay.”

“You’re wrong. She wouldn’t,” Sansa countered, though the faltering in her tone suggested that perhaps she thought otherwise. “That’s not true at all.”

“You’re a fool,” Sandor said ruefully. “A beautiful fool, but a godsdamned fool nonetheless.”

“Perhaps I am a fool,” Sansa nearly shouted, tears streaking her pale face.

He waited for her to finish the thought, but his mind beat him there. _A fool for falling in love with such a big ass._

“Sansa,” he said gently, but she knew he only called her by her name when he was exasperated by her. A thick hand reached for hers, but she pulled back out of reach. He hated that. “You’ve got a head full of godsdamned fairy tales where true love reigns and soulmates live happily ever after.”

“You told me you loved me. Is that just some stupid notion I’ve idealized?” Her voice rose as she took a few steps toward him. She was looking at him, searching him really, trying to find the man he had let himself be for her. The man who was locked away somewhere in his mind. “Are you telling me you don’t see a happy ending for us?”

“Don’t do that,” he warned, gripping her firmly by the elbows. “Don’t play with me, girl.”

“No, I want to hear you say it.” Sansa raised up through her spine, twisting out of his grasp. She pushed him firmly, barely rocking him onto his heels, letting out a frustrated cry. “Tell me what you see for us.”

Sandor was upon her in an instant, arm wrapped around her waist as he dragged her bodily to him. A whimper escaped her lips as he crushed her against his chest, his free hand tangled in her hair. He tugged firmly, her mouth parting in surprise at the way he was handling her. He felt her chest heaving against him as he hovered, inches from her face.

 “I’m not some green boy pining over his first lay, Sansa,” he growled into her open mouth as she vibrated nervously against him. “I’ve loved you and waited while you chose Harry over me. So many restless nights spent dreaming of your skin while you warmed his bed.”

Sandor’s hand about her waist fisted the skirt of her shirtdress as he lifted her from the floor. Her legs wrapped about his waist instinctively as he hoisted her, bad leg and all, onto the desk behind her. When her bare legs hit the cool, polished surface, she uttered a breathy moan that awoke an old demon inside him. He merely grinned down at her, almost predatory, as he ran his thumbs along her inner thighs.

“I didn’t think I’d ever have you,” he said before capturing her mouth in a heated kiss. As their lips parted, he let his spread fingers drift over the lace of her smallclothes, growing hungry as her eyes burned in anticipation. “So, tell me, little bird, why I should believe in happy endings?”

“Because you have me.” Sansa bit her lip, heat radiating through her like a fever. He had her right where he wanted her, legs trembling while she rocked her hips toward him, begging. “I’m yours.”

“Who can know the future?” Sandor said as he lifted her hem of the dress to her waist, baring her legs to his warm touch. “Maybe you’ll meet someone out there in Reno.” His lips skimmed her neck before falling upon her ear. “Someone handsome, rich.”

“You know I won’t,” Sansa said, her tone falling a bit as he pushed her. Her hands cupped his face and she planted soft kisses over the scarred flesh that marked his face. “You know I would give anything to stay.”

“You say that now,” Sandor continued, his fingers nimbly loosening the buttons that lined her from neck to knee. “Gods, Sansa,” Sandor breathed as he pushed the open dress down her shoulders. He ran the back of his hand in the soft valley between her breasts while his eyes seemed to smolder as they took her in. “I’d kill anyone that tried to take you from me.” His fingers lingered over the bruises that mottled her fair skin despite the days that had passed since Harry put his cruel hands on her. “I don’t think I’d be able to help myself.” He took hold of her hands and held them above her head as he lowered her down onto the table.

As his nose dragged against her stomach, he grasped her breast in his hand. “Fuck me, I’d do anything to taste you every day of my life.” He hovered over her panties, stoking the fire between them with every breath that ghosted against her sensitive skin.

When his teeth grazed her sex, she bucked against him as he licked her through the lace between them. Sandor felt drunk, dizzy from the way he could taste her on his tongue through the floral mesh, coaxing her toward her peak, but never letting her fall.

“Please,” she breathed, writhing as he pinned her to the table with his hands, keeping her from taking any more than he wished to give. “Please, please.”

“Please what?” He asked as his teeth grazed her thigh and she could feel the smug smile on his lips as he nipped and licked at her.

“Sandor,” she begged, knowing he wanted her to say exactly what she needed from him. Though she was wanton and moaning beneath him speaking her desire felt more revealing that her naked body. “Please.”

“Tell me, little bird,” he said gently, but firmly. His hands burned against her flesh as he gripped her hips, running the hardness between his legs against her. “You know what you want me to do, just say it.”

“I want you,” she pleaded, raising her hips to meet him, the friction electric. “I want you.”

Sandor laughed under his breath, slipping his fingers under her thighs and into the wet heat he’d created. “You’re ready for it, by the feel of you.” He groaned as he disappeared a glistening finger into his mouth.

“I want you…” Sansa trailed off as he slipped the finger from his mouth inside of her, his thumb rubbing against her. He could see her struggling to keep her wits about her, the last shreds of her propriety slipping through her grasp as he slipped a second digit inside her. “Gods, Sandor, I want you to have me.”

“Good girl,” he growled, flipping her onto her belly in an instant.

Sandor had never taken her like that before, her breasts pressed against the table as he slowly rolled her panties down to her feet. His fingers were inside her again and she watched over her shoulder as he palmed himself with his other hand. His expression was nearly animalistic, his lip curled in satisfaction as he milked moan after moan from her. He needed this. Needed to hear her beg like this, if only for his cock.

Sansa’s hands fumbled on the smooth table top for something to hold on to as he slid himself inside her, holding her by the hips as he set a relentless pace that rendered her helpless. A paperweight from some bank or other filled her desperate grasp as she struggled to maintain some semblance of self-control. From far away, he heard her cry out as he stroked something deep inside her, sending her armed fist down to the desk with a deep thud.

When his heart began to slow and his firm grip faded to loving caresses, he pulled her up and into his embrace. As the world began to firm up beneath his feet and breath rolled through his body in undulating waves, he carried her silently to the bed, unable to look at her.

 

 

When he woke the next morning, it felt as though he hadn’t even slept at all. Sandor grimaced as he sat upright. He leaned his elbows on his knees as he let his head fall forward into his hands. The twisted muscle left knotted in his leg was screaming already and he’d hardly taken a step.

_Off to a beautiful fucking start._

He couldn’t remember a party he had ever been looking forward to, and the gathering for Gendry’s nameday was no exception. It wasn’t that he hadn’t become quite fond of his apprentice. He simply had little interest in celebrating anything. The messy night before him still felt raw and his mood began souring with every step as their argument tumbled around his mind.

Hustling through his morning routine as fast as his lousy leg would let him, Sandor managed to wash up and get out of the house before Sansa and Arya began to stir. He had given Gendry the day off and knew he had a busy day ahead, what with Saturday flocks of mothers and their howling broods racing to do their weekend errands before the sun went down. Before long, his estimation of the day proved correct and the ceaseless lines of customers that filled the store left he him little time to think.  

Sandor was grateful. The pace of the day allowed him to turn his mind off completely, floating through the motions of weighing, packing, _smiling_. He felt as though he’d paid his social tax for the day and wanted nothing more than to hop in his truck, windows rolled down, letting the cool air whip at his face the whole way home.

Instead, he locked up and retired to his office for a few moments of peace before he needed to change and head over to Bronn’s. Not for the first time that day, Sandor felt a dagger of guilt in his side for the way he’d treated Sansa. Apologizing had never been his strong suit and he fought every instinct to run away from that party and bury his head in the sand. Instead, he pulled on the nicest trousers he owned, the green checked shirt Sansa favored so much and even shined his shoes. He skipped the tie he’d brought, realizing as he twisted the damned thing about his neck for the fourth time that he wasn’t just _rusty_ at a Windsor knot, he was a complete failure at the thing.

When he looked up to the hazy old mirror above the lavatory sink, he was greeted by the same snarling monstrosity he had always known. The cruelty of life was less that he was disfigured and more that he could forget his appearance when it wasn’t in front of him all the time. When he imagined himself with Sansa, thought back on the way she touched him and smiled at him, he never truly believed this could be the way he looked.

And once Sansa was hundreds of miles away, when she didn’t have to face him every day, when all the details of his visage had faded in her memory he wondered what would remain. He hoped it wouldn’t be how grotesque he looked, but he wasn’t in the mood to lie to himself.

_Damage control,_ he thought bitterly to himself. _That’s the best you can do_.

He locked the shop up, jiggling the black door as he always did, frowning at the state of the painted storefront. Everything in his life seemed flaking and old and dull. It had been that way before, he supposed, he just hadn’t realized how much different it looked with Sansa in his life.

Bronn’s bar was like many others Sandor had patronized in his years at home and abroad, but his memories of this specific bar were not particularly happy. The scene in the tavern today was quite different, Sansa and Arya having spent the better part of the day decorating in Gendry’s honor. The girls had taken Bronn’s drab heavy wood-paneled bar and lightened it up with blue and white streamers and bunting wherever a surface would hold them. He smiled a small smile to himself, knowing the effort must have been more Sansa’s than her willful sister’s.

Scanning the room with a quick shift of his eyes, Sandor didn’t see Sansa or Gendry. As he sidled up the wall length bar a grey, but dapper, Bronn paced behind.

“Hey Bronn,” Sandor called out to the man’s back, greeted with Bronn’s signature half smirk.

“Sandor, old friend,” Bronn bellowed. Sandor realized then he couldn’t remember ever seeing the man outside of his starched uniform, perfectly white and topped with a neat black bowtie. Bronn spent every waking moment in that bar, it seemed, and looked entirely happy for it. “Ready to toast our boy tonight?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Sandor replied, sighing deeply as he sat down and kneaded his thigh.

“The usual then?”

_The usual_ gave him a bit of an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, the many blacked out nights and bloodied knuckles from over the years flooding his mind. He thought about it a long moment before squaring his gaze to Bronn and giving the man a tight nod. Bronn merely winked and smiled that same old smile, drizzling a double pour of Old Overholt over the rough-hewn cubes in the rocks glass before Sandor.

“Thanks,” Sandor mumbled, nodding again. He unfurled a little bundle of bills, passing them across the slick top toward Bronn, “I’ll buy Gendry’s drinks tonight.”

“Oh, come on now,” Bronn said with a laugh, snapping a small polishing chamois just shy of Sandor’s outspread hand on the bar. “You can keep him in as much meat as his skinny ass can eat, but his drinks are on me tonight.”

“Fine,” Sandor grinned, shaking his head, tapping the bills he’d left on the bar, “but I’m buying drinks for the Ladies Stark tonight, so don’t let them pay.”

“I suppose this is a bit of a farewell party for Sansa too, huh?” Bronn narrowed his eyes, checking to see what kind of reaction that would elicit from Sandor. Sandor merely rubbed the nape of his neck and nodded with a frown. “She’ll be back before you know it, Sandor.”

_If she comes back._

Sandor raised his eyebrows at that, tipping the amber drink down his throat. He tapped the bar, _hit me again, Bronn_ , and raised his glass to the barkeep. “See you in a bit.”

Bronn nodded and Sandor turned away, looking through the sparse crowd that filled out the old wooden booths that had been salvaged from a dilapidated Sept that had once stood in the center of town. He couldn’t make out many faces he knew in the darkened bar, most of the patrons were men who likely let their wives or mothers do the shopping for them, and he wondered where Sansa could be.

All it took was a glimmer of copper to draw his eye and he saw her across the room. It was as though she could feel him as well, turning to face him in a brilliant shimmering wave of blue. He had never seen her in the dress she wore that night, the navy sequins glinting as she gestured to the girl before her. He tilted his head in greeting, flashing her a small smile as he perched against a support beam. She lit up at that, her skin growing flushed as she grinned over at him.

It made his heart swell and he immediately fought the urge to run across the room to her. He had been such an ass, tried so hard to push her away and it did nothing to make him feel any better. He wanted to kiss her, to let her ease the worry that had turned him inside out. Instead, he raised his hand in a small wave to her, delighted when she fluttered her eyes a bit and blew him a kiss.

That floored him, his knees growing a bit weak at the sight of Sansa Stark pursing her perfectly pink lips and blowing him a kiss for everyone to see, rotten and ugly as he was. He tapped his closed fist against his chest in response, just above his heart.

Sandor would remember the smile she gifted him then for as long as time would allow.

“Sansa wasn’t sure you’d come,” a voice said from behind him. “You stalked off to bed like a big baby last night.”

“And left like an ass this morning,” he conceded, kicking out a chair from the table beside him for Arya to sit in. “Self-preservation, or something like that.”

“Funny how that starts to look a lot like self-sabotage, isn’t it?” Arya settled into the proffered chair, her hair matted with sweat from dancing. She was nursing a long-necked beer, her slender finger curled around the neck with practiced ease.

“I know plenty about that, too,” he admitted, more to the ice melting in his glass than the younger Stark before him. He went to sip from the glass in his hands, but the smell put him off immediately. It smelled like anger and blood and a time before he had been loved. He shelved it beside a smoldering ashtray and wiped the condensation over the leg that had quieted down. “At least if I lose her this time, it would be to someone who deserves her.”

Sandor’s tone had been kind, but sad, and he immediately began kicking himself for opening his mouth. Was that what he had been reduced to, now? Making Arya feel guilty?

“Is _that_ what this is all about?” Arya looked stunned as she pulled the bottle away from her pursed lips. Then, mischief lit her face and her eyes narrowed as a smirk took root on her mouth. “Are you jealous of me?”

“Quit it,” he warned, rolling his eyes at her. But the truth was, she wasn’t far off. He should have known better, known that she wasn’t about to drop a juicy little scrap like that, and no amount of glaring seemed to put her off the subject.

“But I’m right, aren’t I?” Arya swiveled in her chair so she could face him better, knives drawn. “You think I’m going to steal her away and you’ll be all alone out here again?”

Sandor could feel anger rising in his blood and it took everything he had not to bite back at the girl before him, to watch that shit eating grin on her face fade. A younger version of himself would not have even stopped to think about verbally eviscerating her. But he knew it would only put him deeper in the hole with Sansa and sour her impression of him that much more before she boarded a train.

So, he let his guard down.”

“You know she wants nothing more than to have you around,” Sandor said with a sigh, pulling out the chair opposite Arya, kicking out his leg with a groan.

“I do,” Arya affirmed with a shrug, dragging her thumb through the condensation beading on her bottle. “But I also know that she is happy here,” she cocked the bottle at him before taking another drag, “with you.”

Sandor set his jaw, twirling the rocks glass along its edge as he considered what she said. “She had been so nervous to tell me she had to go to Reno, that Harry wouldn’t give her the divorce, and here I am proving her instincts right.”

“Well, you know that they say,” Arya teased, “you can’t teach an old, grumpy dog new tricks.”

Sandor snarled at her, earning him a smile from the girl he’d come to favor. He supposed a part of him was sad to see Arya go as well. He’d miss her foul mouth and sharp wit.

“I learned something about my sister, well, about _being_ a sister, a long time ago,” Arya began, when the laughter had quieted between them and her face turned more serious. “There’s been pressure on Sansa from the day she was born to be a proper lady and marry well.” She smiled, a bit ruefully, as she continued, “and with all of those expectations piled upon her, no one has ever really given her a choice.”

“I met your mother,” Sandor replied dryly, “and I’ve seen how hard your sister has to work at being herself through all of that.”

“Exactly,” Arya said, leaning closer to him, her eyes wide and warm. “Even when things looked like a choice to her, she always chose what was expected instead of what she wanted. I saw Harry for the heartbreak he was. I knew about your letters. I knew my sister better than she knew herself.” Arya downed the last bit of beer in the bottle, tapping the neck of it idly as she looked at him intently. “I pushed her away when I made her chose because I knew it wasn’t really a choice. I was just another voice in her head telling her what to do. It hurt me more than I was willing to admit, and it took me a long time to understand why she chose Harry, but she needed to figure it out on her own.”

“She needs to do this for herself.” Sandor echoed. He was flattened by her words, by the clarity with which she distilled all his anxiety into a salve that stung but made him feel infinitely better. Before he knew what he was doing, he was pulling her bodily from her chair and into a tight embrace. Despite her little cries of protest, he was relieved when he felt her arms wrap around him. He really would miss her, more than he ever thought.

“What’s happening here?”

Sandor eased up his hold on Arya, pleased with how flushed she was from embarrassment. Gendry was standing a few feet away, holding two fresh beers, grinning like a drunken fool.

“I turn my back to get us drinks and look how I’ve found you,” Gendry joked to Arya, shining on his best impression of angry and intimidating. Sandor would tell him later that the blushing grin he wore through the entire performance undermined his intentions terribly. “And on my nameday, no less!”

“Calm down, Bogie,” Sandor said with a bellowing laugh as he stood to give Gendry his seat. He clapped the boy on the shoulder, the contents of the bottles in his hands sloshing over the floor. “Take a seat, sit with your lady love.”

“I was told to send you over there,” Gendry said, pointing shakily over to the cluster of tables where Sansa had been mingling before. “It seems no one has asked Miss Stark to dance this evening.”

“Go dance with my sister!” Arya commanded, arm outstretched as she pointed toward the jukebox. “Go remind her of what waits at home!”

Sandor glowered at her for a moment before turning away toward the table Sansa had settled down at. She was sipping from a dainty glass, a gin gimlet if he knew her at all, looking about the room before her as her eyes fell upon his outstretched hands.

“I thought you were ignoring me,” she said coolly, eyes watery as she disappeared her hand into his.

He shook his head gently, leading her onto the parquet dance floor before wrapping his arm about her waist. There was a slow song playing and he hadn’t realized how desperately he need to feel her body against his. How much he needed the quiet intimacy of feeling her breath on his skin, her silken hair between his fingertips.

“I’m sorry, little bird,” he whispered against her ear, afraid to raise his voice that it might crack. “I’m afraid to go back to life without you.” He searched her eyes for anger and resentment, finding only a kindness that told him she knew all too well what he meant.

She, too, had been lonely once.

“Little bird,” Sandor managed finally, resting his forehead against hers as his fingers drifted slowly over her sides. He ran a hand up her neck, bracing her two him like the precious gift she was to him.

“Sandor,” she said, her head rolling against his as they slowly rocked together. “Promise me a happy ending.”

He knew it was a gamble. There was so much time, and soon to be so much distance, for everything to fall apart. Even when she came back, he had seen marriages die on the vine a decade in. He knew he could die, she could leave, that the world could end like some nightmare straight from the mind of H.G. Wells.

But there was something else he knew. 

He knew she had a smile only he saw in the quiet moments they spent alone. He knew she was thin-skinned and hard-headed sometimes. He knew that he wouldn’t trade the snoring that sometimes woke him with a start in the night for a lifetime of quiet evenings.

_She’s a different sort of girl_.

“Sansa Stark,” Sandor murmured, eyes soft upon her face as he ran his thumbs over the gentle curve of her chin, “you are my happy ending.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally in Reno! I hope y'all enjoy reading as much as I did writing! See you in a week!

The sun was warm on Sansa’s face as her eyes fluttered open, chasing away the last moments of sleep.

But she wasn’t fully awake, was she?

In the thick of the haze she found herself in, she could feel heat emanating up through her body, her toes digging into the soft sand beneath her as she slowly turned over to sit upright. Gulls were cawing about her head and Sansa’s hand drifted up to her face to shield her eyes from the aggressive sunlight as she attempted to make out her surroundings.

After all, she had fallen asleep in a winter-chilled farmhouse, thousands of miles away from summer.

Hadn’t she?

Twenty-seven hundred miles, give or take, Sansa thought to herself as she discerned the outlines of teal-and-white umbrellas that dotted her horizon. The beach she found herself on was merely a farce, nothing more than a large sandbox where tipsy women and droll men could dip their toes as they sipped exotic drinks with far-off sounding names.

“Back to work, Red,” came a voice from above her. The man that blocked her sun gave her leg a slight kick with the toe of his patent leather shoe and turned away before she could see his face.

Sansa felt herself scowling and did her best to straighten her features as she slowly worked her way back up to her feet. She didn’t remember buying the gold strapped heels on her feet or the iridescent tights that made her legs sparkle under the blazing sun, but it all seemed familiar enough as she snaked her way around a glistening pool to the modern bar.

She felt nearly naked, the stares of the men that occupied every table and shaded corner impossible to ignore as she swayed past in her sequined dress. There were other girls dressed just like her, swathed in the same black cocktail dress that barely skimmed the knee and the same copper curls set perfectly about their faces. She felt a bit like Rita Hayworth in _Gilda_ , sparkling and gamely, and the center of the decidedly male world in which she found herself.

The cream and chrome bar that lined the wall led into the hotel lobby. Or a dining room? Sansa couldn’t really be sure. She squeezed between two teal leather barstools, moving closer to the auburn-haired barkeep who had until then kept her back to the waiting girl. When the woman finally turned, Sansa found herself face to face with her mother.

“Mother?” Sansa asked quietly, the sound of her own voice strange and hollow, as if it were coming from far away. Her face was set in grave concern, wondering how it was her mother had found her. And in Reno nonetheless.

“Tsk, tsk!” Catelyn said wagging a finger at her eldest daughter. A moment later, that very finger came to rest between Sansa’s brows, a mechanism long ingrained within her forcing her face to relax. “A girl your age should never frown, darling.”

Catelyn gave her a warm, yet distant smile, upending a glass and mixing a bit of syrup and carbonated water. Sansa had never known her mother to drink, let alone mix drinks, but it seemed second nature to the woman now as she dropped two perfectly formed cubes in the glass and garnished it with a sprig of mint.

“What’s this?” Sansa asked, bringing the proffered glass to her lips. The carbonation tickled her nose as she sniffed the concoction, met with a peppery whiff of ginger.

“Good for sour stomachs and other maladies,” Catelyn explained with a wink, turning her back to Sansa again. There seemed to be no shortage of glasses to polish and even in whatever place they found themselves then, Catelyn was nothing if not industrious.

“Thank you, mother,” Sansa said with a soft smile. “It’s delicious.”

As she set the glass before her on the bar, she couldn’t help but notice the deep crimson cloud blooming across the surface of her drink. Her hand drifted automatically to her lips, her mouth suddenly _aching_ to the touch. As she ran her tongue over her front teeth to raise alarm to her busy mother, both loosened and one fell onto the bar before her.

“What’s happened here, then?” Catelyn asked, reaching forward to palm the ivory incisor as Sansa felt panic take hold of her.

Sansa tried to speak again, the metallic tinge of blood filling up her mouth. She felt in horror as more of teeth began to loosen and break free from her gums. She tried discreetly to spit them into her hand—her mother did not approve of public expectoration—but with the tiny white stones came a warm red slick of her blood.

“Why won’t it stop?” Sansa asked, horrified at the mess she was making on her shimmering tights and the bar top before her.

“No need to worry, my dear,” Catelyn said with a smile as piteous as they come. She plucked each one of the teeth from the horrible mess between them, cradling them in her palm. 

Catelyn led her daughter by the hand to another small sandbox surrounded by men dressed far too heavily for the blazing, summer sun. Her mother sank down to her knees in the warm, beige pit, digging out a row of shallow holes with her thumb. One by one, Catelyn deposited tooth after tooth into the earth, covering them with the heaps of sand she had displaced. When she was done, she clapped the dust from her palms and turned to look up at her daughter who looked on in wonder.

“Time to tend your garden.”

As Sansa reached out to take her mother’s hand, the ground seemed to disappear from beneath her feet as she was jerked backward violently. Her head rolled forward sharply, the lap belt around her waist like a punch to the gut as the train groaned and lurched.

Her eyes flew open as the familiar scenery of the train car materialized around her in a dizzying blur.

“Oh no,” Sansa moaned, on her feet before she truly had her wits about her. The train car was small. For that she was grateful, as it took merely two-and-a-half strides to cross to the powder room closet where she emptied the contents of her stomach.

Arya was quick to join her side, lifting Sansa’s hair away from her face as she rubbed gentle circles into her upper back.

“Whoa, Sansa,” Arya pleaded gently as Sansa’s frame racked violently and her stomach heaved. “Try to take a breath now, okay?”

“I’m…trying…” Sansa sobbed, feeling both mortified and overwhelmed at once. Her stomach refused to still though the train had pulled to a stop.

They were about five hundred miles outside of Reno in Salt Lake City. It was the last stop on a trip Sansa remembered little of. Within the first few hours of their journey, Sansa began feeling horribly ill, the myriad scents and incessant movement of the train giving her the spins. She had forced herself to sleep with the help of a few little blue pills Arya had on her. By the time she awoke, she was a stinking sweat-soaked mess.

“Come on,” Arya said, dipping a wash rag into a small basin of water and dragging it across Sansa’s brow. “You look like death.”

“Thanks a lot,” Sansa murmured, leaning against the accordion fold door that separated their poor excuse for a washroom from their bunker-like dwelling. “I was having the most bizarre dream.”

“Everyone thinks their dreams are bizarre,” Arya said dismissively, wetting the cloth again before wringing it out. “Then, once they start telling them to someone else, the mystery just isn’t there.”

“I was dreaming about Mother,” Sansa recounted, her brow furrowed as she tried to remember the details that were quickly slipping from her grasp. “I was losing all my teeth and she buried them in the sand.”

“Really?” Arya conceded, passing the cloth to Sansa so she could wipe the sweat that had collected down her décolletage and under her arms. “That’s actually pretty bizarre.” Arya sat on the closed toilet and splashed her fingers through the water in the basin. “Well, our mother is still dead, and you have all of your beautiful teeth,” Arya said with a sigh as she flicked water at Sansa, “but how are you feeling otherwise?”

“Terrible,” Sansa said. She turned the little brass mirror mounted to the wall so she could better see herself. Her smallest case sat unopened beside Arya’s battered Dopp kit. Fishing out her pressed powder and coral lipstick, Sansa fixed her face back to something more presentable. “I apologize I’ve been such a dreadful travel companion.”

“You can say that again,” Arya replied. “I guess it’s better in here than riding in the loungers, but these cots feel like they’re full of rocks.”

“I’ll be grateful to get on solid ground again.” Sansa agreed, slipping her cosmetics back into the neatly organized case. “Join me for some fresh air?”

“Yes!” Arya jumped at the notion, snatching her black sweater off the chair as she buzzed by Sansa. “I’ve been drying to get out of this stuffy room, but you were half-dead, so I didn’t think it appropriate to leave you.”

“Ha-ha,” Sansa said good-naturedly, straightening the sweater as Arya slipped it over her head, patting the static from her hair. The tunnel-like hall was narrow, and it seemed everyone in their car was of the same mind. Daylight illuminated the darkened railway cart and Sansa felt relieved the moment she could smell fresh air.

Finally, the hall opened up to a wide door and Sansa found herself stepping onto the platform and into the bright sunlight bathing the roughened planks. She guided Arya gently by the crook of her arm to a row of green benches that faced a field. That was a funny thing about most stations Sansa had stopped at in her life. There was little one could see from a train station aside from a river or some field somewhere.

_People seem to forget that anything exists between their stops on a train_ , Sandor had said to her once.   
He wasn’t wrong. Sansa hadn’t been interested in the least in the world rolling by her window. Everything about the trip seemed a means to an end.

Well, all except the tireless vomiting.

“I needed a breath,” Sansa said as she inhaled deeply, turning her eyes to the bright blue sky. The clouds looked different there, she thought, shading her eyes from the sun as she examined the pillowy shapes that seemed suspended close above her head. “I’ve never felt so claustrophobic in my life.”

“Maybe we can ride the rest of the way in the dining cart?” Arya suggested, lowering her black sunglasses over her eyes. “Our whole room smells horrible and we won’t be on this for much longer.”

“That would be fine,” Sansa said, lowering her eyes to her sister as she sat beside her. “I could use a ginger ale or something to settle my stomach.”

Her nose filled with the strong scent of ginger at the suggestion and she was immediately transported behind the bar where her mother was fixing her a drink. She felt as though she could taste it, had _tasted_ it, and suddenly her mouth tasted of copper and she rushed to the nearest wastebasket.

Arya wasn’t long in following, calmly reassuring her that no one was watching and to just _get it out._ Finally, it seemed there was nothing left inside her, and she avoided the shocked looks of mothers and children as she tidied her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Has this been going on long?” Arya asked, helping Sansa sit back down again. “Have you been to see a doctor?”

Sansa shook her head, each breath she took straining the muscles of her sides that had grown sore from over-exertion. “Just started on the way out here.”

Arya nodded, chewing on her lip and Sansa knew she was framing her next words.

“When was your last moonblood?” Her sister finally asked, and Sansa rolled her eyes. “It’s not an unreasonable conclusion, Sansa.”

“It is when you’ve never been able to conceive, Arya,” Sansa bit back, fanning air at her flushed face. “Not to mention a bit insensitive.”

“Ever stop to think that it might be that needle-dick husband of yours and not you?”

She hadn’t.

Harry had always been quick to blame her, and so Sansa had never given the whole matter much thought. She simply accepted her infertility as yet another shortcoming. She thought back in her mind, going over dates and in the few months since she had moved on to the farm, she hadn’t had her moonblood since the end of summer.

“Gods, Arya,” Sansa muttered beneath the fingertips that had drifted to her lips, “do you really think I could be pregnant?”

Arya snorted at that, her head falling back as she laughed. “I’m fairly certain you’ve put in more than enough time to make a baby by now,” Arya japed, brushing hair gently back from Sansa’s face. “For all we know, you could have a dozen babies inside you.”

“Oh hush,” Sansa chided, unable to stifle the laugh that was drowned out by the blaring train horn. “We better get back. Too far along to get left behind now.”

They boarded the train and made their way to the small sleeping cabin, tidying their possessions and watching as the dusty little towns rolled past their windows. Sansa found she couldn’t much focus on the people and places rolling by her window, the very idea that she could, in fact, be pregnant all-consuming. Her fingers traced her lips softly as she pondered names, faces, and the reality that her unreliable moonblood could just be getting her hopes up again.

As the lights of Reno on the horizon slowly became clearer, Sansa found herself on her knees in front of the commode again.  

 

 

Sansa and Arya were amongst the last to disembark onto the platform and into the late afternoon sun. There was a porter not far behind them, wheeling out Sansa’s neatly stacked cases. Arya insisted on carrying her battered duffel, likely another inherited item from their brother Robb.

They scanned the masses of passengers and their loved ones reuniting on the well-worn planks for the Tyrell siblings. Arya was huffing, and Sansa feared about to lose patience when she spied the figure waving emphatically from down the line.

“Well, hello Mary-fucking-Sunshine,” Arya drawled sarcastically, returning the gesture with her own exaggerated enthusiasm.

“Sister,” Sansa warned as she bumped Arya with her hip playfully, “be nice. She is doing me a great favor.”

Arya’s arm fell then, deflated, hanging limply at her side again. They fell in line with the other passengers that flooded the wooden island between train and station, everyone seemingly grateful to be off the train and into fresh air again.

They were greeted--whether Arya willed it or not--with hugs and a general display of affection one would think reserved for a reunion with family.

Margaery Tyrell was just about what Sansa had expected, given she was the progeny of the wealthiest woman in Cold Spring She was tall and lean with shining brown hair held in perfect waves that just skimmed her shoulders. It was no wonder to Sansa that the girl, only a few years older than she, had been named Miss New York in 1952.

“Oh, my goodness, but you are every bit the beauty my grandmother said you would be!” Margaery cooed, holding Sansa at arms-length to take her in. “She has just been on and on about you and I can certainly see why!”

“You and your grandmother are very kind,” Sansa said, at a loss for anything more profound, merely enduring the hugging and petting her new friend seemed intent on giving. Loras, who had otherwise been quiet and out of the way, gently guided his sister back by the shoulders. He gave Sansa a gentle, knowing smile that put her at ease. She was beginning to feel faint again.

“Let’s let the poor girl take a breath, shall we?” Loras kidded softly, earning him a playful rebuff from Margaery. “You must excuse my sister. She’s just dreadfully lonely without a girl her own age to play with.”

“Very funny, brother,” Margaery countered with a good-natured grin, leading Arya to her by the elbow. “And you, my fair child, must be Arya!”

“Today, sure,” the shorter girl replied, leaning away from the incoming embrace. “Tomorrow? Who can know.”

“Oh, how delightfully odd you are!”  Margaery beamed, her nose wrinkling as she smiled. “And how long will you be staying with us?”

“Just until Sunday,” Arya replied, resigning herself to the strong-armed embrace that brought her crashing into Margaery’s bosom. Arya looked to Sansa for help, to which Sansa only shrugged, giggling at the snarl that distorted her sister’s face. “Or sooner. I could leave sooner if it’s too much of a bother.”

“No such thing!” the effervescent Tyrell announced and waved them all, porter included, toward her sharp Cadillac. Sansa immediately felt a bit of emptiness, thinking of how for the first time in as long as she could remember, she would be without a car. She frowned, running her fingers along the soft pink fins. She would miss her Edsel and, she feared, her autonomy.

When the young man who had wheeled out their belongings had finished loading them into the car, Margaery insisted on paying the tip. She waved Sansa’s had away with a bill of her own, insisting _your money is no good here_.

It smelled of Olenna.

To say Sansa wasn’t entirely present through the drive was no exaggeration and if it weren’t for Arya prodding her back to attention, Sansa would have proven herself an incredibly rude guest. Not that there was much to say, really. Margaery was playing tour guide as well as host, slowing to point out this site or that park as they drove the short way across the Truckee River to Sansa’s home for the next six weeks.

Before arriving, Sansa had of course conjured up what she imagined the home of the granddaughter of a wealthy dowager might look like, but she was not prepared for the estate that awaited her. _Or perhaps it is a palace_ , she mused, tilting her head to look up at the vast Spanish-style villa Margaery and Loras called home.

“It was built for a _governor_ ,” Margaery gushed as they pulled into the porte-cochere. There was a faint bubbling from a nearby fountain and the entry was surrounded by fragrant, flowering bushes. “When it came on the market, I just knew I had to have it!”

“Drove the realtor mad from her persistence, I’m sure,” Loras interjected, offering Sansa a hand to help her to her feet.

“Thank you,” she replied, and she feared she was blushing. He didn’t let go of her hand right away, slipping it into the crook of his elbow as he gave her hand a gentle pat. When he shot her a wink, Sansa felt her stomach turn.

_Is everything just off to a horribly complicated start?_

Ahead of them, Margaery was going on and on about the mahogany woodwork throughout the house, the nine fireplaces, the Carrara tile inlay in the master suite bathroom. But what she was truly most proud of was the terrace that ran the entire length of the back of the house, overlooking the very river they had crossed to get there. It was beautiful and the antithesis of staring into the forest Sansa had become so accustomed to.

_At least there’s a terrific view_ , Sansa thought to herself, smiling genuinely for the first time since she left Cold Spring.

“Would it be a bother for me to make a call?” Sansa asked, suddenly reminded of the man that waited for her seemingly on the other side of the world. She hated to interrupt her most gracious hosts, but she was growing weary of the architectural history lesson and more and more uncomfortable by her proximity to the debonair gentleman beside her.

“Oh, my goodness, my mouth has gotten away from me!” Margaery shook her head at herself, embracing the fatigued sisters one last time. “Let’s get you to your rooms.” She fished in her dress pocket for two keys, both adorned with wooden markers shaped like flowers. She handed one, a hydrangea, to her brother and held on to the lily. “Loras, see Miss Arya to her room and ask one of the girls to send dinner up to their rooms.”

“Yes, sister dearest,” Loras replied warmly, offering Arya his arm and smiling when she laughed him off. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Sansa.”

“And you as well,” Sansa replied, catching her sister by the elbow as she turned to walk away. She wrapped her arms around Arya, burying her face in her hair. “Thank you for coming with me.”

Arya wrapped her arms around her in turn, the embrace brief, but overdue. “I’m glad we did this together,” she offered, pulling away from Sansa with a smirk, “even if you turned our car into a sick room.”

“Good night,” Sansa said, shaking her head gently as she turned back to Margaery. As Arya and Loras went down the opposite end of the hallway, Margaery slipped her arm through Sansa’s and led her down a hall and into a different wing of the house. They passed through an indoor courtyard, the whole room smelling sweet from the lush flora that lined their walk. Sansa was in awe at the extensive level of detail on every surface and hanging on every wall. “You really do have a lovely home.”

“Well, it’s so nice to finally have you here,” Margaery replied, giving her arm a squeeze. “And believe me, I know how difficult all of this can be and I’m glad you have some friends, even if they are new ones.”

“Yes,” Sansa smiled, leaning into her companion, “it is very nice having someone who has been through all this before.” Sansa realized then how long it had been since they arrived and she began feeling for every moment she spent before calling Sandor to let him know she was alright. She hated repeating herself, but she worried the question had fallen on deaf ears. “Would it be a bother to use a phone?”

“Oh, not a bother at all, Sansa,” Margaery replied with a wink. “You have your own phone.” They stopped in front of a dark wooden door adorned with a beautifully illustrated icon of a lily, painted right on the panel.

“That’s such a treat,” Sansa said, feeling rush of emotion at the kindness these strangers had shown her in such short time. “You are already doing so much for me, I can’t begin to know how to repay you.”

“Grandmother told us you have a beau back home,” Margaery explained, waving the thought away with the pass of her hand. “It seemed a small courtesy to give you your privacy.”

Her nonchalance was genuine, and Sansa wondered if anything was ever a bother to Margaery Tyrell.

“You know about Sandor, then?”

“Yes,” Margaery grinned, arching a brow, “and all about your _horrible_ husband.”

“He’s a real ass,” Sansa agreed with a laugh. “Sandor is nothing like my husband.”

“Thank the gods!” Margaery exclaimed, her brown curls bouncing as she clasped her hands together in mock prayer. “My second husband was a disaster and a half. I met him here while I was getting my first divorce,” she sighed, examining her nails as she relived the terrible reality in her mind.

“And the first?” Sansa inquired, intrigued by the life the woman, not much older than she, had already lived.

“He’s in love with my brother,” she said with a shrug, as though it were the oldest of tales. “I fear my poor taste in men will turn me into a spinster like my grandmother.”

“In love with your brother?” Sansa parroted back to the girl lost in her own thoughts, that facet of Margaery’s confession stuck in her mind.

“Oh, you’ll meet Renly soon enough,” Margaery laughed, bringing Sansa to her in a warm embrace. She pressed a kiss into Sansa’s cheek, patting the other with her hand as she backed away from her slowly. “And we have plenty of time to chat and laugh when you’re not so exhausted from your journey here.”

“Yes,” she replied, knowing she was running on fumes and she hadn’t heard Sandor’s voice in days. “I’m quite overdue for a bath.”

“I’ll see you in the morning when you are ready to break your fast,” Margaery said handing her the lily marked key. “Sleep well and say hello to that lucky man back home for us.”

“Of course,” Sansa said, turning the key in her doorknob, calling out _goodnight_ after the girl that had made her way down yet another hall. Sansa closed the door behind her and leaned her head against the heavy, paneled door. She rested for a moment longer, taking in the room before her, bedecked with rich tapestries and heirloom décor. As she scanned the room in earnest curiosity, a small victorious laugh escaped her as she spied the brass handled telephone illustrated with flowers.

While they had been touring the house, someone had brought in Sansa’s luggage, the neat set stacked at the foot of the bed. She opened her cosmetic case, fishing out her phonebook and settled into the bed. She looped Sandor’s number, the gentle rattle of the bells inside making her heart beat in anticipation. The connection sounded distant and Sansa felt every mile between them as she waited for him to answer.

To her surprise and delight, he answered just before the second ring.

“Little bird?” Sandor’s voice sounded different, almost like a gruff child were in his place. It brought tears to her eyes that he had answered like that and she suddenly felt guilty for every moment she spent after the train that delayed her call.

“Were you waiting by the phone for me, Sandor Clegane?” Sansa cradled the phone against her shoulder, leaning down to slip the heels from her feet. “I thought I’d wait for a whole four rings before you realized I wasn’t there to answer.”

“I haven’t forgotten you left, Sansa,” he replied quietly. She could hear the sadness in his voice and she felt the tears that threatened to fall. “I dragged the phone into the dining room, so I could catch up on paperwork. But yes, I have been waiting to hear from you.”

“Olenna’s granddaughter is a most gregarious new friend,” Sansa joked, sinking into the deep pillows that topped the bed.

“Your trip out was alright then? No problems?”

Sansa bit her lip. She wanted to tell him she had done little other than get sick all over herself the entire journey, likely because of his child inside her, but she couldn’t. Telling him would only make him worry. Telling him could make him angry. Telling him before she was sure would only break his heart.

“It was fine,” Sansa managed. “Dreadfully long and uncomfortable, but fine.”

The line was silent, awkward silence stretching between them as the new dimension of their relationship had yet to be defined. Letters would no longer suffice, the yearning she felt for him now of a different magnitude and order than their separation in her youth.

“How has it only been three days?” He muttered finally, breaking the silence between them.

“Gods, it feels like forever already,” Sansa nearly sobbed, something breaking inside her then. “You promise you’ll visit?”

“I’d be there today if I could, little bird.” Sansa missed being able to feel his words as he spoke, trying desperately to remember what it felt like to be in his arms.

She couldn’t help the tears that fell from her eyes, exhaustion overwhelming her. It wouldn’t be today or tomorrow. It would be five weeks before he would come to her, to bring her _home_. No matter how beautiful her lodgings were, she was still bereft. Her heart was in Cold Spring.

“Sansa,” came his gentle, melancholic tone from the other end, “please don’t cry, little bird. Tell me something happy.”

_Tell him you're carrying his child._

“This house is beautiful,” she quipped, hoping to turn the conversation into easier waters. She brushed the tears from her cheeks with her knuckles. “It feels a bit like a palace for a girl nearly my age.”

“That does not surprise me,” Sandor laughed, and she imagined him kneading his thigh as he spoke. “Where are you now?”

“In the most comfortable, ridiculously pillowed bed I have ever laid upon,” Sansa said with a sigh, curling on her side as she slid down onto her back. “They gave me my own phone.”

“So, no one will hear the filthy things we all know you’re dying to say to me.” He was grinning. She knew that tone of his voice and it always made her smile reflexively. “Did they give you the number?”

“I forgot to ask,” Sansa replied deflated. “I’ll make sure I have it for next time.”

“When will you call again?” Sandor asked, eagerness coloring his otherwise even tone. “I’m sure you’re tired.”

“I am,” she said with a sigh. “And in dire need of a bath. I smell worse than the goats.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” he said with a low laugh. “Call me when Arya leaves.”

“That long?” Sansa frowned to herself, counting the days until Sunday when she would put her sister back on the train. She somehow thought she would spend every evening talking to him until they fell asleep. It wasn’t realistic, he was a quiet man, but four days seemed insufferable.

“It’ll give me something to look forward to.”

“Alright then,” she said, her voice low and thick with tears. “I’ll call you Sunday.”

“I love you, Sansa,” Sandor said after a moment’s pause, tightening his hold around her heart.

Her hand drifted over her stomach, wishing she could see inside herself and know if there was more of her to love. Tears streamed quietly from her eyes again and she leaned her head back against the mountain of pillows.

“I love you,” she managed finally, the hardest part of her journey the distance she had to move the receiver from ear to cradle. She rose to her feet and crossed the room to the connected bathroom, just another luxury she had not anticipated. There was a deep pink tub and she smiled through her tears as she plugged the drain and let the water run.

Sansa undressed slowly, her mind thousands of miles away. As the dress fell free from her shoulders she paused in front of the large mirror over the sink, fog beginning to vignette its edges. She hadn’t truly looked at herself in a long while, vanity an unbecoming trait for a young woman. Or so her mother told her.

She turned to her side, looking at her profile in the glass, her hand ghosting over her stomach the way she had seen a hundred women do before her. She imagined a child, a part of her and a part of the man she loved, and she smiled to herself, her mother’s voice ringing in her ears.

_Time to tend your garden_.


End file.
